Ashes to Ashes
by SkyKissed
Summary: He doesn't see her amidst the ruins of their home. And when she comes to, she wishes he might have. Because death has to be preferable to this. And if she can't make it back to him, she's certainly willing to die trying. Eventual Wash/Taylor, fix fic.
1. Chapter 1

A/n: Strangely, Wash's death is very, very easily fixed. Like. Comically easy. So easy that it could be rapidly reversed in canon if the desire ever took the writers. Like….fixable in ONE scene, easy. So I could write that…

OR WE COULD HAVE A LONGER STORY THAT HAS POINTLESS DRAMA! Obviously, we must opt for the pointless drama. Let's start this ride, kiddies. Strap in. It's time to set the universe right. Short opening prologues for everyone!

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><p><strong>Chapter: Limbo<br>**

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><p>Ash drifts lazily on the air around them, helplessly buffeted by the winds. Some catches in his hair, some on his clothes, the dull grey striking a poignant contrast with the black of his apparel. It's somehow suitable, the color drained from the world around him. Dull grays and bitter oranges as their new start, their home, smolders around them, rain attempting to tamp down on the destruction. It's partially successful, the smoke drifting lazily up to join the clouds above them. Oddly poetic, as if the world itself mourns their losses with them, attempts to clean what was once perfect. They've had deaths before but...not like this. This...feels like something else entirely. A loss of innocence, if he was feeling introspective.<p>

His side screams in protest but he moves through the rubble, searches in vain for a face he knows he will not find, will never again have the pleasure of seeing. Dark eyes that will no longer flash, no longer fix on him with such determination, a muted affection and a very real camaraderie. There is nothing, the overturned rubble simply reveals more ash, more dirt, no sign of her passing. Fate cannot allow him even this, will not permit him to return the body of his dearest companion to the world she so loved. To her home.

Uncharacteristic as it is, he feels tears burn at his eyes as he settles on the ruined steps of Command. The building's collapsed in on itself, a desperate remain of the dreams they'd painstakingly erected over the years. A symbol of the life they'd shared, built together. Gone. She's gone. Lucas is gone. Everything's just….

It could have gone worse. So much worse. Somehow it's the dullest, most bittersweet sort of comfort he's ever offered himself. He closes his eyes against the images that unwillingly come to him as he stares out towards the wilds.

The bodies of Lucas' mercenaries line the streets, mingled seamlessly with the soldiers Wash trained, he'd trained, come to know, come to regard as family. Her kids, as Taylor had jokingly (they'd always assumed it was a joke, now he isn't so sure) referred to them. It leaves an all too familiar burning sensation in his gut, in his eyes, and he's suddenly grateful for the rain. Rubs fingers absently over the raw flesh of his wrists, the stinging sensation momentarily drawing his attention away from his morbid thoughts.

He shouldn't be here, would prefer anywhere else. It's too fresh, too rife with memories. If he turns, he'll see the past given form, he'll see Wash staring after him, remember insisting she stay behind, stay safe. He'll see the Shannon children, attempting to put on a brave face for their parents. He'll see their people, still clinging to hope, to the notion that their leaders are something greater than human, something capable of shielding them from the incoming storm. He'll see every one of his mistakes, painted with striking clarity, dancing across the canvas of memory, each of their voices haunting and entirely too real in his grief addled mind.

Because they'd failed on all accounts. She hadn't been safe, the Shannon's hadn't been safe, he couldn't protect his people. And if he turns, all he'll see is how it might have been different. How perhaps if he'd listened to her, permitted her to remain at his side, or that he stay here, stay with her, it all could have been so very, very different. And when he closes his eyes, he sees nothing but that, an endless stream of equations, simple changes so drastically altering the outcome.

It's a dangerous road to walk, one laden with endless scenarios and conclusions. What if he'd done this, what if they'd changed that? Endless and maddening. He reaches out a hand, rests it on the ruined railing of the stairs. Remembers how many times she'd stood there, staring down at her returning Commander, an amused smile involuntarily turning her features, banishing her irritation, when his laugh colored the air.

If he closes his eyes, he'll see her, crumpled before him, hair splayed across her shoulders, covering a face that had in life been beautiful. He'll see nothing but his dearest companions stripped from him, stripped of the gravitas she'd effortlessly laid claim to. He'll see nothing but his failures played over and over, ream after ream, loop after loop.

He'll see her.

His Lieutenant, his friend, his companion, his Alicia.

He'll see her and it's somehow more maddening than this destruction around him.

Taylor manages to stand, clasps a hand to his side, vaguely notes that it comes away red with blood. He's overextended himself. He's no good to the colony dead; it's something his mind informs him of absently, and he notes with no small amusement that it's her voice that presents the notion. Soothing as it breaks over his frayed nerves, the shattered remains of his psyche. He needs to rest, to sleep, rid himself of this.

Knows he'll see nothing but her.

There's nothing for it. There's no sleep, nothing but the search. He continues to move through the rubble, another shadow drifting amidst the ash, a shade seeking completion it will never find. Searching, hopelessly, vainly for dark hair amidst a rapidly darkening landscape.

Searching, because somehow, someway, he can't bring himself to admit she's gone.

He feels a hand clasp on his shoulder, the fingers digging hard enough to drag him away from his bitter reverie. Jim Shannon stares back at him, the humor, every bit of well intentioned mirth stolen away from his green blue eyes. There is nothing there, simply determination. The same refusal to accept the harsh truth presented him.

The sheriff of Terra Nova moves in beside him, turns over a large boulder. Assists his Commander in moving a particularly impressive bit of rubble. Neither call out, neither speaks. Simply move through the ashes of their home, seeking, searching.

The tags beneath his shirt offer a comforting weight. He absently reaches a hand up to clasp them through the material. Two sets. His and Wash's. _For luck_, she'd said, quickly shoving them in his hand, before he could protest of she could think better of it, a smile entirely lacking mirth plaguing her features as he prepared to leave her what seems like an eternity ago. Spoken with the not so subtle warning that they be brought back to her. That he come back to her.

He'll find her. He'll scour the entire damn colony, the planet, heaven or hell, and let god save whatever stands between, but he'll find her. Her tags bounce against his chest, a piece of her. He moves through the rubble, a look of absolute determination tearing at his features, his ash stained face, his mournfully black clothes.

He'll find her.

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><p>There's only pain, a dull throbbing sensation in the back of her skull that insists if she's not dead she's most assuredly skirting the line. Conscious thought is impossible, everything torn from her, the word hazy and swimming in front of unsteady vision. Blinks. Grey to black, grey to black, open, closed, open. The vague sensation of liquid (blood, her mind supplies unsteadily) trickling down the side of her face, the bridge of her nose.<p>

Tries to move her hand and finds it's impossible. Not restrained, not anything, she feels nothing over her hands, nothing keeping her immobile. Simply can't move. The thick haze, the blanket over her senses…pain or drug induced, perhaps both. It is, she decides, the strangest sort of feeling, being trapped in one's own body. Not at all pleasant.

Blacks and grays and movement that make her nauseous if she focuses on too long. Strange shapes moving in and out of her line of sight. Words she cannot, for the life of her, give meaning to. It's all a blur, nothingness brushing against her maltreated senses.

She's dead, can only be dead. Remembers dying. Remembers the gun, remembers falling, the cold of the earth beneath her. How her home had somehow become her tomb. How he'd never come for her. How despite all her foolish hopes, all those dreams where he'd rush from the tree line to deliver her, she'd stood alone at the end of things. Alone in life, alone in death; terribly fitting, if she does so say. She'd laugh, if it wouldn't hurt so terribly, if she was capable of coaxing her body to accept such a movement.

She's dead. It's as much a prayer as it is a simple statement of fact. Let it be over. She's done with this shit, plain and simple. She's made her peace; she's ready to move on to whatever the hell comes after. Heaven or hell, she's ready for a change in terrain.

But there's nothing, no light, only the pain in her skull, the pain wracking her nerves. The sensation of being trapped; the feeling of fingers ghosting down her neck, clasping in her hair. Dull and grey, an echo of things that had once been vivid. She's dead, must be dead.

Through the grey she see's pinpricks of blue, cold, familiar and yet something entirely different. Blue that should offer her comfort, that ought to summon familiar feelings of warmth, belonging; blue that's almost as much a part of her as the color of her hair or the memories she wraps around her like a cocoon as she sleeps.

She's lying on her side, hair splayed out over her forehead, across the floor. Something unyielding beneath her, cold like stone. Her ribs ache as if she's been struck with a high impact force, as if a booted foot has connected with them one too many times. Her body refuses to react to her commands, unable to make contact with her brain. She simply watches, blue eyes staring right back at her, twinkling with some strange unknowable light, flickering between emotions more quickly than they can effectively register.

Their master kneels beside her, turns her to lie on her back. Leaves her staring up into the nothingness above her; perhaps a starless night, perhaps a canopy, perhaps the inside of a cave. The blue eyes are over her, staring down, fingers brushing against her cheek, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear. Whispers in her ear, scratching against her consciousness, tearing fingers down her awareness, dragging her screaming back to the reality of the world. Fingers down her neck, clasping there. A forehead against hers, blue eyes so close, so terribly close. Fingers brushing over her cheek, smearing a bit of blood across her lips, the acrid taste burning.

She's dead, she's dead, she's dead… Tries to move, cannot.

A ghostly whisper, only just rasping through his throat, over parched lips, dancing in half mad eyes, twisted by loathing and hated too deep seated to possibly pass itself off as sane. Fingers, trailing over the planes of her features, blue eyes burning in the darkness, caressing like a lover long forgotten, no longer desired.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant. Would hate to see you leaving us so soon."

_She's dead, she's dead, she's dead…_

Opens her mouth to protest, tries to open her mouth. Nothing, no reaction, lips glued shut, body unmoving. The face so close to hers, smirking. Tries to move her arms to shove him away. No reaction.

There's only blue eyes, glittering in the darkness, whispered words slinking over her, fingers at her throat, only the pain coursing over her as she lies trapped in her own body.

_She's dead, she's dead, has to be dead…_

She isn't dead.


	2. Chapter 2: Fade

**A/N: **For those of you concerned that Taylor might spend this story in a fit of emo angst, worry not. He'll get over his sadness soon and then get back to doing what he does best. Namely, ruining people's days and kicking liberal amounts of ass.

Alternately, I know it's confusing, but for this chapter, Wash and Taylor are running different time frames. Taylor's events happen about three days or so after returning to the colony. Wash's are perhaps… two to four weeks, maybe more, after. Taylor's sections all happen within the same day. Wash's are spaced over a series of days. You're smart cookies! Hopefully it makes sense….

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><p><strong>Chapter: Fade<strong>

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><p>It's been seventy two hours (give or take, although it's more <em>give<em> than anything else, ten hours or so) since he last slept. He's managed to doze off for perhaps an hour (less) over that time but sleep…seems impossible. The colony needs him more than he needs to rest (and he clings to this notion desperately; that is the sole reason he will not close his eyes); he runs a hand tiredly over his features, glares at the plex's spread in front of him. Endless requisition forms, endless requests for more workers to shore up whatever area of the colony has most recently fallen into disrepair.

They've cleared most of the rubble away, started fixing up the holes in the gate, rebuilding Command.

And there's still no Wash.

Something in his gut sings at the notion, allows itself to preen under the idea that perhaps she managed to drag herself away from the scene. That she'd been alright, that she's out there, somewhere. It's foolish, it's childish, but he can't deny the hope it gives him. He clings to it, allows it to lead him through his day. That perhaps this is one sin he can atone for. That he hasn't sentenced another woman to her death. Hope.

He shouldn't be surprised then, when it's snatched away from him.

"Commander? Commander, you reading me?"

Shannon. It registers absently through his exhaustion. Shannon's calling him. "Yeah, I've got you, Shannon. Report," Fingers massaging his temple, attempting to dull the ache in his head.

"Can't say for certain yet but….I think…" the man on the other end of the line takes a steadying breath. There's the sound of him running a hand through his hair, almost as if he's weighing whether or not this information is something he truly ought to share, "We think we've found the lieutenant, sir."

He isn't sure why his breath catches in his throat, why air suddenly becomes impossibly to manage. His fingers tighten on the desk in front of him, knuckles deathly white. "Wash…" it's far from elegant, leaves him in a rush. "You found her?"

"Yes, sir."

Bites his lip momentarily, "Bring her in, Shannon." The sheriff says nothing in reply, perhaps suffering his own reaction, perhaps respecting the emotion in the other mans voice, "Bring her home."

Glances down at the plex pads in front of him, no longer interested rebuilding. Glances up, where the time's displayed in front of him. Seventy three hours, more or less (more).

He'll sleep. He'll sleep after she's been returned to the earth. To her home.

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><p>There are no words to describe how desperately she's come to despise the color gray. Gray vision, gray thought, gray environ, gray, gray, gray. She's aware of little beyond her slab of earth, the haze of her vision. There are voices occasionally, unfamiliar, unknowable. Occasionally, a face will present itself to her, hold a syringe of something or other in front of her face. The words that accompany it are spoken in a manner that suggest she ought to understand, should at least get the gist of things. They mean little to her. Chemicals of some sort or other, perhaps meds. All she knows is that the moment he injects her she can feel it in her veins, cold as it streams through her, numbs each and every one of her senses. Frequently, she'll lose consciousness. When it feels like she might be capable of moving her limbs another syringe joins the first, another liquid, and then everything's heavy. No more movement, no more imagining she might leave this place. Simply her slab of earth and gray.<p>

She's on her side still, the opposite one, someone's moved her in the midst of her delirious, drug induced, sleep. Not surprising. Sometimes she'll come to, feel the world shifting beneath her as if she's being pulled along. Sometimes she'll imagine she see's stars moving above her; tree's passing her in a blur of gray green. Memories, a certain fondness for such things. She remembers moving through such trees, sleeping (naturally) under them, staring up at the same stars. Remembers them fondly, remembers sharing them with another. That they had once been a comfort, something she prized.

It's all still now. Only the blurring. Her left arm tingles, too much of her weight placed on the one appendage. Her fingers splayed out, some curled in towards her palm. Her nails are longer. It's a strange thing to notice but it's a way to measure time; the only way to keep track of anything in this strange vacuum she's taken to existing in.

If she focuses, if she invests all of her energy in it, she can move her fingers. Curling delicately in, slowly at first and then with more strength, in and out. Nails biting at the tender flesh of her palm. Strange, that such a trivial thing should bring a smile to her face. Turns her hand to rest flat against the ground beneath her, drags nails over the surface. Movement. It's such a small thing.

Voices from behind her. She suffers a pang of dread, stills her hand immediately and tries to lie very still. More drugs, more meds, another slip into delirium, another bout of paralysis. They've come for her again. But the face of her tormentor never manifests. Simply the voices, clearer now than they've ever been before. If she focuses, parts the veil hanging over her senses, she can almost understand them.

The first voice, low but undoubtedly female, one she cannot place, is more harsh, very obviously put out, "She's a threat, Lucas."

The second chuckles, far softer, masculine and rasping, "Jealousy does not become you, my dear."

"Your men have brought a viper amidst us. If she recovers…"

"When, Mira, _when_ she recovers," he crosses the room, comes to stand beside her. She stays very still as fingers brush the hair from her, neck, from her shoulders; briefly linger on the delicate skin there. Trace the lines of bruises only just beginning to heal. "My father endows each of his creations with certain inalienable rights. The most prominent being a refusal to die or _remain_ dead." Over her cheek, caressing the purples and blacks, "As much a nuisance as a benefit, I'm afraid." He chuckles to himself, groans immediately, as if the deep breathes cause him a great deal of pain.

Footsteps as the female crosses to stand beside him, a withering tone, "You've torn your stitches again."

She imagines he bats her hands idly aside, tiredly, as if dealing with a particularly pesky insect buzzing about his form, "Then you'd best pray the good lieutenant awakens."

She stirs, moans as the pain manifests anew, the drugs wearing thin. Tries to move again and finds it's still possible though difficult. Each of her muscles screams in protest, nerves firing off sharp, desperate signals to her brain demanding she still immediately. Nearly spasms only to tense to such a point that she imagines every ounce of her body might shatter. The man lets out a pleased sort of sound, gently massaging the abused flesh, hands gliding over her shoulders and upper arms, attempts to coax her to relax, to breathe through the knot in her chest. Turns her to face him.

Blue eyes, tinged with the most beautiful sort of green.

She remembers them. The inside of her head remains a blur, thoughts shattered and smeared across the expanse of her skull, bit and pieces falling slowly into place, the edges jarring against each other. Remembers the military (field medic, lieutenant, a damn good shot…), remembers Terra Nova (second chances, new start, lieutenant…), remembers…someone (blue eyes), knows he had been important to her. Knows those things are irrevocably connected. The broad strokes she retains. Everything else is…foggy. Remembers dying, but not how, remembers being at peace, but not why, remembers hoping for someone, but not who.

God, it hurts to think.

He smiles down at her, the expression far from friendly. Something turns in her gut at the expression. Blue eyes, reminding her of things she knows she should remember. So familiar, so prominent in her memories, "Ah, the martyr returns to us." The man laughs, shallow, light so as not to irritate his wounds, "Have to hand it to you, lieutenant, you're something else. It's not every day someone survives a blast to the head." But he doesn't sound in the least surprised.

She licks her lips, mouth somehow painfully dry. With some effort she's capable of speech. Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, rough and gravelly as if from disuse, cracking in places, "Well, that explains things." God damn, it hurts. She tries to turn away from him, is held in place. Attempts to reach up to bat his hand aside and can only barely lift her arm. It earns her an amused, patronizing chuckle.

"You'll find movement difficult for a while. The chemicals we gave you should be wearing off…"

"What…" a groan, "Chemicals?"

He glances over his shoulder towards the other woman, "Don't think your people ever named it, did they?" She shakes her head simply, continues glaring. "Doesn't suppose it matters if it's doing its job. It tends to cause temporary paralysis in the host. Useful, when you're transporting a corpse as…_lively_, as yourself." Closes his eyes, attempts to still his breathing. "The effects are temporary as far we know."

"Comforting," she grits her teeth, tries to ease herself up into a sitting position. And while the stranger with blue eyes regards her with a curious expression, he doesn't attempt to stop her. Shifts back to give her enough room. It's like being stabbed, thousands of tiny knives pricking at every inch of her skin. Every ounce of her demands she lie back down. Stay still. Just stay still, heal. Something in her snarls at the notion, cows it into silence as she continues to fight her way up. Her vision swims dangerously, bites down on her tongue. He is visibly impressed when she manages to settle herself, balancing her weight on her palms, "Where am I?"

"Safe."

He's lying. It's in the subtle way he tilts his head, the delicate narrowing of his eyes and the twitch of his lips. Simply a sense, a hyperawareness she doesn't understand but knows to trust, "Anything more to it?"

The man reaches out, brushes a stray bit of hair from her face, tucks it behind her ear. For reasons she cannot fathom (he's handsome enough, despite the bruises dotting his face), his touch inspires a reactionary feeling instantaneously within her, not akin to loathing, a desire to scrub herself where their skins made contact. If he notices her reaction, he makes no comment, "How much there is to tell depends on how much you remember."

"That doesn't sound at all suspicious." Closes her eyes to fend off the nauseous feeling.

"Already pointing fingers and only conscious a few minutes," he chuckles to himself, "And here I was worried you might have suffered some lasting damage." He inclines his head lightly to the side, takes her face in his hands, smooths them along her jaw, "Tell me what you remember." Nods, because what else is there to do? "Your name is….?"

Oh god, she can't have been laid so low. Focus, think. Pick through the haze, through the half formed memories flitting about her consciousness, "Lieutenant," that comes to her without hesitation, as if it's more a part of her than anything else, "Alicia Washington."

"Good girl. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Terra Nova."

"Wrong."

Eyes snap open, amber to meet his nearly glowing blue-green ones, "What?"

The woman shifts uncomfortably behind him, foot to foot, arms over her chest. Lying. Again. Perhaps not entirely but he's keeping something from her. Leans his forehead against hers, a hiss of breath against her skin as he speaks, warming and somehow cooling in perfect unison, "Once of Terra Nova, Lieutenant. Once but no longer." Fingers winding in her hair, nails against her scalp, "Do you remember the woman behind me?" A shake of the head, no. "Do you remember me?"

A part of her knows she should. Knows him but can't place him, "Taylor."

"Ah, there's my girl. Yes, Lucas, Alicia. Lucas Taylor."

"Nathaniel's son…" _Nathaniel_…

"Ssh, ssh," frenzied against her skin, holds her face more tightly, closer to his, "We don't speak of him here, Wash." The nickname is familiar, sends a pang of affection through her. But it's wrong coming from him. He'd never called her that. "Not after what he did to you."

"Liar," it leaves her before she can think better of it, an airy wisp of air mingling in the air between their lips. He pulls away from her, immediately suspicious of her, a not so subtle demand that she elaborate on the statement. She can't. "Nathaniel would never hurt me." Spoken with more steel and determination than she's felt in a long time. She doesn't pretend to know how but the words taste correct as they leave her; absolute truth, evening if she can't provide them with context.

"Who is Nathaniel, Alicia?" Tone low, not longer so gentle. The woman tenses behind Lucas, lips curling back in a scowl as she comes to wait behind his left shoulder. It is only a warning hand from the man that stills her.

"I…" There one moment and gone another. She focuses and it drifts away from her. It brings with it a bolt of near physical pain, loss almost inhumane, "I don't remember."

"Then how can you say you know for sure?" Purring again, voice caressing.

"I know, Lucas."

"Hmmm…." He nods to someone outside her line of sight, makes a summoning motion. The man, the doctor who so often drugs her, enters, the syringe in his hands filled with the familiar liquid. "You're tired, Lieutenant."

"Like hell I am, I've laid here long enough…" She glares at the man, brings her hand up to swat him away. It does little good. Lucas nods to his woman and she intervenes with more relish than precisely required, hands digging at her shoulders as she's shoved back against the table. Wash thrashes against the contact; feels the needle break skin. The familiar icy sensation.

Then only numbness. Gray.

Damn, she hates gray.

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><p>Shannon returns to the colony with a body in his arms, draped in his jacket. A train of black hair extends from behind it, billows in the wind. Regulation says she should be riding in the back of the rover safely covered with beneath a tarp; hell, for sanitary reasons he shouldn't even be touching her. He doesn't give much of a damn. Not about the smell, not about the disease, the dirt, whatever the hell else someone would use to protest. This is Wash; his friend. The woman, who sacrificed herself to save his family, gave her life for his.<p>

Taylor's waiting for him, pacing the length of the gate before they even arrive. Holds out his arms as if he expects Jim to transfer her to him. Shannon shakes his head, no, continues on towards the medical compound his superior in tow. It's insubordinate, yes, but he refuses to let the woman go a second time. Needs to mourn her at least a little before the other man (exhausted and more worn than Jim's ever seen him) has his turn. Needs to ascertain that it's even her. He ignores the flash of anger in the older man's pale eyes.

The good doctor simply shakes her head when he arrives, sighs. She knows better than to reprimand him. Shares enough of his grief to permit his misstep. She motions to a bio bed, already prepared for the autopsy. Throws him a curious glance when neither he nor Taylor makes to leave.

"You boys just going to stand there? I dare say you'll do the colony more good than the lieutenant or myself."

If they hear her, they do not comment. It's almost amusing; both square their shoulders, Taylor folds his arms over his chest. Stubborn, foolish, men. As if what's beneath Shannon's coat will somehow bring either of them closure. Their eyes burn with some strange light, fixed on the body. She sighs but doesn't have the heart to deny them.

The smell she's accustomed to. Decaying flesh, dirt. Taylor lets out a hiss of breath, rage and something else. The bodies been horrible burned, the face unrecognizable from the blast. Half of it barely remains, the blood dried and crusting. Cuts across the wrist, burns selectively placed to cover each of the scars that had dotted the lieutenants body. She frowns at the image. Brushes one of the horrible marks with the tip of a gloved finger; it earns her another outraged gasp from the Commander. As if this is somehow a defilement of his friend. He is ignored.

He shifts, glances out through the window. Inwardly demands he calm himself, calls upon those years of military calm, reserve. He seen this done a thousand time, has buried more of his friends than he cares to count. Somehow it's different now. Somehow every time the doc touches her seems like a violation.

Elizabeth barely looks up from her work, touches something on the side of the bed, "Where'd you say you found her, Jim?"

The other man hesitates, eyes hardening, "Few miles north of the colony. Her and a few other ranking officers."

They converse for a few moments. Pursing her lips, Doc Shannon takes her husband's arm, leads him out of the room, leaves the Commander standing alone with the mutilated body of his second, his friend. Before he can think better of it, his feet are taking him to her side. Finger's entwining with hers. So broken, not anything like the woman he'd known. Closes his eyes, exhaustion and grief tugging at the fibers of his being.

(How many hours has it been now? More than he cares to count. Sleep's so far from his mind, now he'll only see this, her stripped of her dignity, her strength, everything that defined her. No sleep.) She's gone. Blue eyes burning, dangerously near tears, dark hair soft beneath his fingers. Memories tearing at him.

"That isn't me."

The familiar voice has him jerking his head up, eyes comically wide. There, alive and vibrant and smiling at him as though nothing at all has happened, stands Wash, leaning against the bio bed, tapping her fingers lightly against the surface. She arches a brow at him, entirely too amused. As if she's surprised he'd even believe she might die from something as simple as being shot squarely in the face.

He simply gapes, "Wash…?"

Steps as the other two return to the room. Elizabeth shakes her head, catching his desperate question, "I can't guarantee anything, Commander. These burns are selectively inflicted at best. We'll know within the hour but until then…" the doctor inclines her head lightly to the side, takes in his surprised expression, slackened jaw. She gives his arm a light squeeze, "Are you feeling well, sir?"

Wash smiles at him, rolls her eye and indicates the smaller woman. It's only that that calls him back to himself. He shakes his head, clears away the haze from his vision. "Fine, doc. Just fine." But she's still there, smiling at him and alive, her dark hair loose about her shoulders, just as it had been that night. "Call me when you…just call me."

"Yeah, within the hour," but Doc Shannon's looking at him strangely now, almost as if she's mentally attempting to diagnose him for some nonexistent sickness. A moment later she moves away, goes back to her tests. There's nothing for it. The Commander stares briefly at his reborn Lieutenant, the woman still leaning over her presumed body. Shakes his head and leaves the room.

He's tired. That's all this is. Exhausted, delirious. He runs a hand through his hair when he steps out of the medical compound, allows the warmth of the sunlight to wash over him. Tries to take some comfort in it. The colonists are returning to their prior lives with remarkable aplomb, milling about in the market and conversing with one another. It'll be easy (almost too easy) to forget anything ever happened once they've repaired the visible scarring near the gate.

Closes his eyes, listens to the hum of life around him. When he opens them, Wash is waiting dutifully by his side, hands on her hip. So alive. She scowls at him, "I wouldn't die so easily."

"I'm…insane."

"Maybe," she shrugs her shoulders, "I wouldn't put it past you, sir."

He simply shakes his head, tries to clear her away. But she remains beside him, trots along behind him, just a few steps behind. Just as she'd done in life.

He's out of his goddamn mind.

He locks the door behind him when he enters his temporary quarters. Turns around and finds her waiting for him. Almost jumps out of his skin at it. She simply shakes her head, dark hair whipping about her shoulders. "Running from me, sir?"

"Seems reasonable when you're being chased by a dead woman…"

"Chased is debatable." Taylor doesn't know how to respond to that, breezes past her into the kitchen. Grabs the first bottle of liquor he happens upon. Doesn't bother finding a glass, simply takes a swig of it. The burn is comforting. Wash crosses her arms irritably over her chest. "_Obviously_ drinking yourself into a stupor will get rid of me, sir."

A knock at his door interrupts between he can respond. The sound of a card being used to disable to the lock; it leaves little to the imagination as to who's followed him. Shannon. Being nosy as per usual. The man has an immutable sort of curiosity that does little but land him in trouble. He pokes his head through the door, fixes his eyes on the bottle in his superiors hand immediately. Frowns, but says nothing.

He doesn't appear to notice Wash crossing to him. "You think Shannon see's me?" She mutters, casting him an arch look, "If either of you should be seeing me it's him." It has him raising a brow. His Wash would never regret her sacrifice. But she continues to scowl at the sheriff.

"Are you all right, Commander? You're looking a little pale," Shannon takes another step forward, a hand extended to him as if he expect the older man to collapse at any moment.

He doesn't know if he even blinks, simply takes another swig of his liquor, stares at the dark haired lieutenant, "You ever hallucinate an angry dead woman, Shannon?"

Jim, to his credit, simply shifts from his left foot to his right one. Looks mildly confused but little else, "No, sir."

"Then it looks like I'll be paying your wife a visit."

Wash simply shakes her head. Looks, for all the world, amused.

* * *

><p>Wash spits a mouthful of blood, clutches her abused ribs. Tries to roll out of the way of the expected counter attack and is only partly successful. The booted foot grazes her, agitates the already shrieking flesh of her abdomen. It sends a fresh, hot spark of pain thrumming over her senses. Bites down hard enough on her lip to draw blood, reaches up to catch the foot around the ankle. Twists with all the strength left in her, is rewarded with a gratifying snap, the man's agonized shriek as he falls away from her.<p>

A second enters the fray, delivers an open palmed strike to the side of her head. In a normal situation, it would send her reeling. Still recovering from a head injury, it momentarily steals sight from her, sends a pain unlike any she's ever experienced (she may not remember them but she's aware she's lived through some hellish ordeals) winging through her. It's like her heads suddenly decides to shatter, a knife digging in at the base of her neck. Braces herself on her fists, glares up at the larger man. Spits blood again, this time staining the fabric of his fatigues. The bastard scowls at her, reaches down and drags her up by her hair.

Dying twice in the same month…

She won't deny it has a certain sort of charm to it.

Her assailant draws his fist back, prepares to ruin the face that has only recently begun to return to its once beautiful state. New bruises to replace the mottled yellow and green ones still covering the majority of her flesh. The pain in her head silences momentarily, enough for her to meet the end with some measure of clarity.

There's a bang from somewhere behind her and the man collapses. The sudden lack of support has her falling, jarring her knees against the rock. She doesn't have to turn to know who it is.

Lucas.

He's on her faster than she can register the movement. The maneuver is eerily reminiscent of only a moment earlier, his hand buried in her hair, gives a hand yank to crane her head back to stare at him. Those blue eyes are openly furious.

They've gone through this dance more times than either cares to count. He releases her, she scowls for reasons she doesn't pretend to understand and can barely remember. He purrs that she's home, safe here with him; she cannot shake the feeling of wrongness. That she needs nothing more than to get away from here. Find her way…hell, she doesn't even know to where. It's driving her goddamn insane.

The grunt whose leg she's broken glares over at her, "What the hell is wrong with that bitch?"

Lucas simply chuckles, gives another yank on her hair (like their two damn kids in the school yard, not trained soldiers; she grits her teeth), "Fiery one, isn't she? Father always did have a penchant for them especially…after. Didn't want to risk keeping anything around that reminded him of _her_." _Ayani, _her mind offers helpfully; another name without context, this one summoning up conflicting feelings of affection and jealously. Slight as he is, the man's miserably strong, fingers digging at her scalp, hissing in her ear, "Never did have to risk that with you did he, Lieutenant?"

"I don't goddamn know, Lucas!" She growls back, her wild hair and bruises causing her to appear almost feral, "Why don't you tell me?" He grabs her arm, hauls her unceremoniously to her feet, pulling her along after him. Simply another part of the routine they've fallen into.

He'd allowed her out on her own a day or so after their encounter in the cave. No drugs unless she behaves poorly.

She's spends the majority of her time high off her ass, unmoving in Lucas' quarters.

Bloods trickling down his arm stains the exposed skin of her arm, the liquid warm and unpleasantly sticky, leaving visible streaks. When it blends seamlessly with the smear of crimson on her knuckles she feels her stomach wretch. The idea of them mingling in any way so personal leaves her feeling ill.

He practically tosses her into his tent, rounds on her furiously before returning to his pacing. First along the length of the enclosure, then resorts to tracing circles around her, each subsequent lap lessening the distance between them. It's a coping mechanism, she knows. A desperate attempt to still his frustration. Frankly, she wishes he'd just hit her. She squares her jaw, glares at him.

Half mad eyes fix her with a glare more heated than she ever remembers being turned upon her. It sends an irrational sort of satisfaction purring through her addled mind. Almost like a tapestry hung in front of her, she watches each strand of his patience slowly unravel, leaving him naked and vengeful before her. Fuming impotently like some sort of spoiled child. He can't kill her; for whatever reason he simply refuses.

"My patience with you is running thin."

"Then do something about it."

He howls, the laughter drifting around them like some hellish cacophony, closes the distance between them to clutch her bruised jaw in his hands. "Oh, Lieutenant, wouldn't you love that. To die. To finally find the death that evades you so." Fingers over her cheek, "Death is for the unimaginative, you know." And he's nothing if not goddamn creative. Her scowl to his smile. "You'd love to have something to justify your feelings towards me…but I won't kill you, Alicia." Nose to nose, teeth, green blue eyes, "I'm not my father, am I? Even you remember that."

His father. The stories clashing directly with the vague half memories she's managed to extract from the ruins of her mind. Feelings of warmth, belonging, affection to contrast with the tales of treachery. He'd left her to die. Watched her die. He'd turned against her. Been nothing more than a traitor near the end of things, his band of terrorists striking out at the colony.

It had been Taylor who had her executed her.

She can find no lie within the account, feels no untruth from the story when Lucas recounts it for her, day after day, night after night, as if repetition will drive it through her skull, engrain both the feelings of loathing and the intense hatred that inevitably accompanies the telling. It's true, from certain angles. That she does not doubt. But it does not explain the loathing she feels for this boy (his behavior renders him as nothing more than that) and the calming sensation his father's name evokes.

"He left you, Alicia," the boys voice so low, against her ear, "I saved you. Drug you from the ashes."

"Drugged me, certainly," she snaps.

"I pray for the day when you'll remember me, Lieutenant. Remember the mercies I've shown you." Lucas steps away from her, growling at the blood still dripping down his shoulder. The fools reckless, and while the wounds from the gunshots he'd sustained (at his father's hands, he insists, and that she _knows_ is a lie) are almost entirely healed, he's incapable of venturing into the field without injuring himself. Something assures her it runs in the family. He presses a hand tiredly to his forehead, changes the subject without pretense or thought, "Would you like to know something about yourself?"

It earns him a glare, amber eyes narrowing. That statement has become familiar to her as well, a verbal cue that he desires something from her and is willing to trade. Blackmail would undoubtedly be a more appropriate summation. Even knowing this, she can't still the curiosity, how it twitches, slithers around within her until she grants it release. He knows this as well as she, smiles, beckons her forward.

Before she can protest, he's drawn his shirt over his head. Over his ribs what can only be teeth marks bleed with more vigor than she'd ever suspect them capable. His jerky movements have only agitated what ought to have been a routine injuries. A shallow mark of crimson across his bicep where something had charged into him, caught him off guard. He indicates the med kit across beside him with a silent nod. When she doesn't immediately move, he speaks, "My father was always speaking of how talented you were. Wouldn't shut up about it really. I think, after all our years together," he holds up a pacifying hand when she makes to protest, "You owe me a demonstration of said skills."

"You really believe I'd help you?" And she has no recollection why she ought to say such words. They simply leave her before her brain can process them. Almost like its habit.

He smiles, draws her near to him, presses the needle flat against her palm, "I think you'd rather die on me, Wash. You've done nothing if not proved that. But…" a strand of wild hair, tucked behind her ear. She resolves to start wearing her hair back. "I'll always be there to pull you back from the brink. Always."

The words of a lover spoken dripping with poison. She glances down at the item in her hand, tightens her grip on it. Tries to remember her training and comes up blank. Her hands, as long as she lets her mind drift, seem to instinctively know the patterns and so she permits them.

She isn't gentle. And when he lets out a surprised yelp of pain when she jostles his ribs, she grins.

* * *

><p>"You're seeing Lieutenant Washington?" Doc Shannon regards him as if he's lost his mind. He can't disagree with her, not with a dead woman smirking at him, poking at what they suspect is her corpse. The smaller woman worries her lip, tilts his head lightly to the side to inspect his eyes. Frowns, "How long has it been since you slept, Commander?"<p>

"Not long, Doc."

It's a blatant lie and from her displeased expression she's well aware of it, "Taylor, I can't help if you intend to be stubborn about this. If you are hallucinating this is a serious problem. For the colony and yourself." And damn if she's right.

He supplies the correct answer without thinking, "Ninety eight hours."

"Jesus Christ," she runs a hand through her hair, brings it to rest beneath her chin, "Sir, you shouldn't even be about, let alone overseeing anything."

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"Dangerous question, sir," Wash mutters not glancing up from her mutilated body, though her tone drips with barely contained irritation, "Especially when it took you nearly a hundred hours to drag your ass in to see her."

"You're a lot less subordinate than the woman I remember," he snaps, leveling a finger at her. She shrugs, unapologetic.

Elizabeth lets out a low moan, "Oh, you _are_ hallucinating."

"Thought I mentioned that."

"I was hoping you were exaggerating. Sir, you must get to bed immediately. It's _imperative_ for your health."

"And if I sleep this," he indicates the not-Alicia. To the good doctor, he's simply pointing out another patch of air and it sets her off worrying anew. "Will go away?"

"Hypothetically, yes."

Hypothetically is not a word he's fond of. It either is or isn't and he has no time for anything in between. Either this Wash will or will not be gone when he awakens. That is for certain. What is less certain, and what irritates him all the more, is he can't decided which he would prefer occur. When he asks the woman about the results of the autopsy, she shoos him out of the room. Considering the disparities in their size it's a display that would set him laughing any other time. The woman simply sets her jaw and orders him home, prescribes a light sedative to help him sleep.

"And if you come to me anytime within the next forty-eight hours," she warns, her tone deceptively cheerful, "I assure you that my treatment will be considerably less gentle." And he doesn't for a second doubt her.

The first thing he does when he arrives home is find his bottle of scotch. The Wash in his head is oddly silent the entirety of the trek, simply tails along at his heels. It's strange, but not entirely unpleasant. When the door opens and he busies himself with the kitchen, she takes to pacing. He settles himself at the table, amuses himself by watching her, even if it's simply an image his mind has conjured.

She just looks so right. So alive, so perfectly suited to his home. Even if he's out of his damn mind he can't say he regrets the image. It's soothing, evening if she's attempting to wear holes in his floor with her incessant movement. When he clear his throat she glances up, purses her lips.

Something's troubling her (though he supposes it's truly him that's troubled. She little more than an extension of him) and she reaches up a hand, rests it against her forehead. Marches towards him and simply says, "I wouldn't kill me." She (he) hasn't come to terms with the body in their morgue.

He can't help the bark of laughter that escapes him, "That's a fairly obvious statement, Wash."

She glowers, takes a seat in the chair beside him, her motions frenzied, determined. As passionate as he remembers her being in life, "If you had your enemy's right hand at your mercy would you cut it off in a fit of pique? Lucas isn't that stupid, Nathaniel. You know that."

The smile that turns his lips is remarkably sad; he reaches out a hand. Even in his mind, the woman's hair is impossible. A dark strand of it hangs across her forehead, tickling against her eye. His fingers brush it back; nothing meets his skin, simply passes through air. The apparition tilts her head, appears to lean her cheek into his hand. Her words make sense, he won't deny it. Strange, that the prospect of it turns his gut; he strokes a finger over her cheek, "For your sake, I'd rather not." Because at least dead she's safe. The same cannot be said if she's out there, existing at the whim of his son.

But he can't shake the feeling that perhaps she's right. Perhaps she's out there. Somewhere.

He downs the rest of his drink, ignores the way she shifts when he does so.

He stares absently at the bottle resting on the table in front of him, rolls the amber colored liquid in his glass; amber, not so dissimilar to the color of her eyes. It sloshes lightly about the glass, licking at the condensation on the sides. The scotch burns in his throat, the elegant taste washing over his palate. It's a poor drink to get hopelessly sloshed with, far too expensive. It'd been her favorite though.

His Wash, this new Wash, heaves a withering sigh, crosses arms over her chest, scowling, "I wouldn't approve of this."

"No, you would _not_," Taylor smiles to himself, stares at her. She looks…so real. So very much like his lieutenant. With a little more alcohol he won't know the difference. They'll be back where they've always been, sipping good scotch in his kitchen. A long sigh, "But you aren't her, are you?"

"No, sir."

"Well, whatever you are, settle down and have a drink with me. Difficult to effectively marinate in my sorrows with a dead woman scowling at me." He almost pours her a drink before catching himself halfway through the motion. Transfers the liquid to his own glass and ignores her affectionate sort of smile.

There's a comfortable silence shared between them. He drinks for the both of them (marvelously difficult for ghosts, or whatever the hell she is, to drink), enjoys the presence that's been lacking since he left to defend the portal from Lucas. Only just comes to terms with how desperately he's come to look forward to it, rely on it. Refuses to accept that this might be the last time he shares it with her. Refuses to accept that even this is nothing more than a figment of his overtired mind.

The Wash sitting beside him is openly curious, places a hand over his to still his movement, prevent him from pouring another drink. For the best, most likely. He's more than a little drunk and well on his way to slipping into a well deserved alcohol induced coma. Far preferable to Doc Shannon's drugs.

Her voice is softer than he ever remembers it being in life. The question she (he, damn it) seemingly picks at random, his exhausted mind firing off more thoughts than it can process before settling on a particularly sensitive one. She moves uncomfortably in her seat, glances down at their hands, hers smaller and more elegant over his.

"Did you love me?" the apparition tilts her head lightly to the side, shifts in a manner that one might almost consider embarrassed. It's nothing more than an extension of himself when push comes to shove and so the uncharacteristic change in her demeanor is striking.

She's nothing more than an extension of himself and yet he can't help but lie, even still. He gently slides from beneath her grasp (feels real enough) brings his drink to his lips, speaks over the rim, more into the liquid than at her, "As much as I ever had right to." Far more.

And she knows it. Of course she knows it, "That's not an answer, sir."

"Oh?" He chuckles, "Then for once I'm lucky you're just a hallucination. The real you would never let me live this down."

"I _was _tenacious."

"You were," and his voice sounds hopelessly slurred. But she smiles regardless. Reaches up to place her hand against his cheek. He leans into the touch (and she has absolutely no right feeling so real, goddamn it), feels his eyes grow heavy. "Think I'm going to sleep now, Wash."

She snorts, "About damn time. Drunk off your ass and out of your mind, and you're just now conceding you need rest."

He chuckles, drags himself up. Knows he can't make it to bed and falls on the couch instead. It's comfortable enough. When the hallucination follows him, he isn't surprised. When she lies beside him, tucks her head beneath his chin, it's expected. She isn't real and he deserves this before returning to reality. His Wash doesn't object. She's remarkably true to her old self and so he takes comfort in her decision. Because even as a hallucination she'd have called him out for causing her to behave against her character.

"You gonna be here when I wake up?" He isn't even sure if he says it but he hears her chuckle.

"I hope not." Her fingers tug idly at the collar of his shirt, brushes the delicate skin beneath, "You'll miss me."

"I'll always miss you, Wash." And he sure as hell means that.

The hallucination simply shakes her head, sidles more tightly against him. Draws his arm so it appears as if it rests over her waist. "Get some sleep, sir." He almost wonders if she doesn't sound a little sad. Silly really, but the thought refuses to leave him, even as he follows her orders, drifts off in a much needed, but fitful, sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** MOOD WHIPLASH BETWEEN SEGMENTS FOR THE WIN! Sorry ya'll, needed one more chapter of set up. Because now we can really start this party. Time for Wash to get her ninja ways on. And Taylor to get his act together.

In my notes, the Wash in Taylor's section is cheerfully described, in BattleStar Galactica terms, as HeadWash. She's like normal Wash on crack. And she's ornerier than all get out. She may or not make a return depending on how long it takes for these crazy kids to find each other. Most likely not.


	3. Chapter 3: Spiral

**A/N: **CANON! What are you doing to me? Lucas is only 25! WHAT? Well…I guess that makes his relationship with Skye a _little_ less messed up…

But it makes some of the things in THIS story _much _weirder. O_O Oh dear. Aight, Taylor's first section in this follows a few days after his sections in the last chapter. Then everybody's operating in the same time frame.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Spiral<strong>

* * *

><p>There are times when Taylor regrets returning to the colony, doesn't wonder if things might have been easier had he simply remained in the jungle after those hundred and eighteen days of exile. It had left him skirting the edges of sanity but had not been unpleasant. There are mornings when he awakens, misses the sensation of the wind ghosting across his skin, the morning dew pooling across him, refreshing and new. There are times when he'd willingly trade the chains of command to simply return to that life, easy, simple, natural. Where he wishes to awaken to rays of sunlight bathing him in warmth rather than the metallic chime of some device warning him of his impending shift at Command.<p>

Selfish, perhaps, but it's a passing fancy and one he rarely indulges.

This morning he permits it to flit about in his mind, entirely too attractive as his head thrums painfully. His eyes flutter blearily open, adapting to the light only barely filling the room. Nothing but a rare beam of sun, faint and glittering as it catches on the dust motes drifting lazily towards the floor. He groans, stretching his cramped muscles, scowling as they protest. The air in his mouth tastes stale, lingering traces of alcohol and sleep coloring it unpleasantly. From the various kinks plaguing his body he's willing to bet he's slept a great deal. More than he usually permits.

He cranes his neck, searches for something unknowable. There's no lingering trace of warmth against him, no sounds of another being within his home. Nothing to mark his lieutenant's presence. She's kept her word, every bit as loyal in death as in life, and has left him. He tries to ignore the poignant sensation of loss that the words evoke. Glares at the bottle still on his table, at the chair still out of place (only one, nothing to mark she had ever sat beside him). His stomach protests his ruminations, demands it be fed.

He grabs his jacket, entirely too willing to comply.

Wants nothing more than to leave that place.

It's too early for anything civil to occur within the colony, the sun only just cresting the horizon. The pinks and oranges seem almost unnaturally bright, pastels somehow softening the blackened scars across the earth beneath them. It refracts off the morning dew in strange kaleidoscope patterns, gives the illusion of peace, perfect and unshakable, mingles seamlessly with the silence still hanging on the air. A new start, a new day. It leaves a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

How many mornings had he drug Wash's sorry ass out of bed just to watch the sunrise? She's never been as enamored with it as he. He has fond memories of her simply clonking out next to him when he'd insisted (teasingly, of course, but she'd chosen to misinterpret his words and remain by his side) she stay up after a particularly strenuous rotation OTG. But she'd remained despite her exhaustion.

He busies himself with paperwork, pointedly ignores the concerned looks from his soldiers; ignores the weight of her tags against his chest and the sensation that her doppelganger had been correct. That perhaps she isn't as far gone as they've come to think.

When he breezes into the medical compound later, sometime after noon, Elizabeth fixes him with a hard look, arches a brow. He simply shrugs. No more hallucinations, no ghosts trailing at his heels. She holds the look a moment longer before nodding, silently accepting his word. Jim's not terribly far behind her, staring up the readings from the bio-bed. The lieutenant's body has been moved out of the ward but the readings remain. For the best, really; it's certainly not inspiring, looking over to see a corpse while receiving treatment.

The sheriff waves offhandedly, never really looking away from the screen, brow furrowed in concentration. Whatever's there is causing him concern; he shifts uncomfortably when pinned with the Commander's unwavering stare, blue eyes flaring to life.

"I take it you have the results of the autopsy," tone openly disapproving that they failed to inform him earlier; neither of the Shannon's appears even vaguely repentant. If anything, it only causes them to square their shoulders, the wife coming to stand beside her husband. An obviously united front. He holds up a pacifying hand. He's too tired to pick fights with his own people, just wants to know what's become of his friend. Again, Doc Shannon nods, conceding to him. She waves him over absently, presses a button to enlarge the display so it's spread out over the length of the bed. Various bars, some detailing the chemical present in the body, cause of death, etc. Interesting but hardly worth concerning oneself over, "What am I looking at?"

Elizabeth smiles, indicates a panel in the lower right section of the display, "This, Commander." It's two separate pieces of information, juxtaposed. One he recognizes as Wash's medical records, a blood sample from her last visit to the infirmary. The other, he assumes, is what they've most recently taken from the body. They've taken blood from two different sections of the cadaver. One matches the earlier sample exactly, contaminated only slightly by time and the elements, flecks of dirt meshing itself with the liquid. The second bears trace similarities but is most certainly not from the same host. He frowns.

He's no doctor (he's the farthest thing from one; Wash had taken no small amount of delight in teasing him over his medical ineptitude) but even he knows that's not right. "Tell me if I'm reading this right, Doc. This body…it's not Wash's is it?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying, sir. Here…." Calls up a topographical view of the body. He applauds her. Far preferable, lacking the stench. "Despite the similarities this is not the Lieutenant. The blood here," she indicates the corpse's wrists, "And here," a bit across the neck and low across the abdomen when the gray tanks been torn aside."Matches that of Lieutenant Washington's samples. But the actual skin is from an entirely different woman. After combing through the colonists samples we were able to match it to a Katherine Weiss."

The name's familiar. A (baker?) woman who'd come through on the seventh pilgrimage. About Wash's height with the same dark hair, a comparable skin tone. The similarities, as far as he can remember, had ended there. In death, so horribly mutilated, it's enough to render the two of them easily mistakable. It is, however, very clearly not his lieutenant.

It's not Wash. Point one for his hallucination.

Jim nods, "I checked her home earlier this morning; turns out she went missing sometime during Lucas' little coupe." He pauses, shifts from one foot to the other and then holds up a hand. Open his mouth to speak and then shuts it.

"You got something to say, Shannon?" He knows before the other man even opens his mouth. That the sheriff is entertaining the exact same hope, that, somehow, this is a good sign. That their Wash is still out there somewhere just waiting. But the younger man appears far from exuberant over the prospect. If anything, it causes his face to grow unnaturally somber, eyes almost sad. "You're telling me there's a chance she's still out there." Not a question. Jim nods.

"A very slim chance, Taylor."

"You should be aware, sir, that even if the lieutenant survived the initial blast the likelihood that she escaped without any permanent damage is…" Elizabeth frowns, changes her tactics when his expression grows almost hostile, as he prepares to leap to his absent friend's defense, "It's entirely possible she'll have no awareness of her situation, if she's capable of any thought at all."

"But there's a chance…"

"Taylor," Jim lets out a long breath. The younger man looks exhausted. The guilt that's been weighing heavily on him rears its wretched head, the weight a millstone around his neck. Whatever's he saying, however logical it sounds, sits with him poorly. Is in direct contradiction with his impulsive approach to life. "It's a long shot. Even Wash can't be doing well after a blast like that."

"All the more reason to go get her."

It sounds almost like each word tears at him. Like he wants nothing more than to agree with his commander and go rushing off into the wilderness guns blazing. Like he wants nothing more than to cease playing the rational member of their coalition, "You know we can't do that, Taylor. Not when the colony's only just beginning to recover." Fingers clasping and unclasping near his waist before stilling their movement; he loops them his belt, a very Wash sort of movement.

"You better not be saying what I think you are, Shannon," a long moment of silence as Taylor stares down the man he's come to view not only as a friend but as a trusted advisor. Blue eyes meet, challenges him to say precisely what he's implying. The younger man can't bring himself to do it. There's a warning clear in his tone, bitten off, each word crisp, more akin to a caged predator prowling the confines of his cage searching for release, "You can't be asking me to leave her to die a second time." To hear it put so bluntly has Jim visibly wincing, lips thinning to purse in a tight line.

The gibe has him fuming, taking a step towards the older man. Daring him to say such a thing again, to insinuate he's willingly forsaking the woman responsible for saving his family's life, his own life, "You're not leaving her to anything, sir. The simple fact of the matter is we cannot expend precious resources when we have no way of knowing where Lucas is or if she's even with him." Logic to combat emotion. Taylor finds himself hating it.

"Shannon…" closes the distance between them, openly frustrated. Impotent to save his companion, forced to leave her, to fail her a second time. Forced to choose between his home and the woman who's willingly sacrificed everything for him hundreds of times. It shouldn't be a difficult choice.

It is.

Jim grabs his arm, ignores the ramifications of the distinctly insubordinate action, voice dropping to a furious whisper, "Don't think for a second that I don't want to storm his damn camp, sir. Wash was important to a lot of us, alright. But she wouldn't want this. Hell, she'd call us on it. You know that as well as I do." Wash would be furious with them for even considering it. Between her well being and the safety of the colony there's no comparison. She'd sacrifice herself without a thought, without even considering the repercussions. Damn herself to any torment and rage against anyone became between her and her martyrdom.

A long contemptuous sigh as he relents to reason. Strange, that such a thing causes him to suffer such a fit of conscience, feels like a very real part of him withers and dies with the words, "Then what do you suggest?"

"Rebuild. It's what she'd want. Once that's finished, recon into the Badlands. Lucas isn't going anywhere. And if Wash is there…well," Shannon shakes his head, almost as if he doesn't even want to consider it's a possibility, can't consider that he's left his friend to suffer at the little bastards hands when he might have intervened. Gives his Commander's arm a reassuring squeeze, "she's strong. She'll make it."

In his heart, he knows that's true. Wash is the furthest thing imaginable from a delicate flower and hardly requires protection. Somehow though, the notion of leaving her to fend for herself, knowing he's abandoned her, stings far worse than imagining she met her death at the gate.

That was a hurt he was simply incapable of preventing. For all his abilities, he's nothing more than a man and could not prevent her sacrifice. The pain that's followed her death is a natural reaction, the _appropriate_ reaction to losing a treasured friend and companion. This is an entirely different sort of beast. This burns and rages and tears at him.

Because this time, he's willingly leaving her to her hell.

For the good of the colony.

* * *

><p>Her skin's never felt so…she's not entirely certain there's an appropriate term for it. Filthy doesn't seem to do it justice, unclean is far too mild. It's the sensation of almost being separated from one's own body, a thick skein of sweat and dirt hampering all reactions, all senses. Whenever she brushes her arm she half imagines leaving a visible trail in the dirt.<p>

For all their differences and the obvious animosity between them, Mira is perfectly willingly to loan her the necessities to clean herself. Feminine camaraderie, if one's feeling particularly generous, a pressing desire to be rid of the stench, if ones' being more cynical (honest). It's hardly the flowery sorts of soaps she remembers being (secretly) fond of in whatever life came before this one, simply a scratchy substance capable of effectively purging her of the dirt. It works to an impressive lather as she moves it between her hands. Frankly, even the prospect of her upcoming bath sends her nerves humming with an undeniable contentment.

She slips away from camp entirely aware her movements are being carefully observed. None of the mercenaries make to follow her, warned off both by her fiery temperament and her presumed ties to their leader. While the very notion that the boy has any power over her causes her stomach to wretch involuntarily, she won't deny that it occasionally comes in handy. Breaking stray fingers gets tiring after a while.

Nights in the Badlands are not so terribly dissimilar to the days. The air remains warm, reduced from the boiling heat to a more tolerable, temperate region. It's muggy at the foot of the hills but bearable and the majority of the desert creatures have retired for the night, only the stray sound of nocturnal insects breaking the unnatural stillness. Above them, the too large moon shines, bathes everything in clear silvery light. It makes sleeping difficult, undoubtedly, but at the moment she's grateful for the assistance as she picks her way across the rocky terrain. There's a small lake not far from their camp and she heads for it immediately, her borrowed clothing and essentials tucked under her arm.

Technically speaking, she hasn't been given permission to leave the camp. Technically speaking, she doesn't really give a damn. If Lucas wants to dope her to the gills the moment she returns she's more than willing to oblige; at least she'll be clean.

It brings a smile to her face as she reaches her destination, the light playing off the smooth surface of the water. Slowly, so as not to agitate her recovering muscles, she tugs her shirt over her head, tosses it in the water. The material had been white at one time and now more strongly resembles a dirty tan or brown, smears of ashy grey across the lower hem. Her trousers are more difficult; she has to bite her lips to keep from letting out a sharp hiss of pain, nearly falls twice. It leaves her seething, furious that a task she once regarded as simple now requires so much focus. The rest of her apparel rapidly joins the every growing pile floating idly on the lazy internal currents of the lake. With some difficulty, she steps in, waits for her body to adjust to the cool temperature.

For the life of her she can't think of anything even half as pleasant as the feel of the water as it laps against her abused skin, eases the aches plaguing her. She stops a ways out, settles herself in a sitting position so the water breaks barely above her chest. Begins the intensive process of scrubbing her skin raw (and she has no intention on stopping anytime before it, there's no telling how long it'll be till she has another chance like this). Her arms and abdomen are easily managed, her legs doable with some effort. She almost yelps when she turns too quickly, pinches a particularly sensitive nerve in her attempt to reach her shoulder. A second attempt yields a similar result.

She feels a voice skimming over her lightly, an almost physical touch, the sound coming from behind her, near the shore.

"Allow me, Lieutenant."

His voice, while not unexpected, causes her to stiffen immediately. It's remarkably soft, half-way amused, half-way irritated with her Insubordinate behavior. Listens as he wades out towards her, weighs whether, in her current state, she might be capable of evading him; knows she'd fail. Lucas extends his hand over her shoulder, waits not so patiently for her to pass him the soap. When she refuses, simply continues scrubbing at her calves, he reaches around, catches her wrist. Normally it wouldn't concern her, but the bastard makes a precise effort to clench only on a particularly ugly purple bruise, each twinge sending a spasm of pain lancing up her arm. He clucks his tongue in disapproval, shakes his head.

The boy eases himself into a kneeling position behind her, edges her back until her heels connect with his legs. Parts her hair and drapes it across the front of her shoulders before turning his attention to her back. When she tenses involuntarily at his touch (though she is inwardly relieved to feel the fabric of his shirt itching against her skin) he chuckles, digs fingers into the tired muscles. When she turns to look at him, his fingers bite with significantly more force, stilling her, a warning sound commanding her to stay put. Something inside her bristles at the prospect, orders her to turn.

It's only the pleasant prospect of finally being clean that keeps her stationary. He works silently, effectively, clearing away swathes of grime. On the first circuit, he almost manages to convince her he has no ulterior motives. That perhaps she's misjudged him, that there's more to him than her feelings of hostility originally led her to believe. On the second, his pace slows considering. On the third, the soap is forgotten entirely, replaced with fingers tracing the contours of her back. She doesn't have to see his face to know he's smirking.

His hand fists in her hair, surprisingly gentle, cranes her neck back to look at him. It's an uncharacteristic sort of touch, clashes with every fiber of his being. A pretty disguise erected for her benefit more than anything else. His features passive and beautiful in the moonlight, smiling down at her, brushing the hair away from her shoulders; if she were anyone else it'd be the simplest thing in the world, forgetting what he is. But the supposed placidity only serves to heighten the mad light in his eyes, an ethereal, otherworldly quality that has no place in the expression of any sane man. He's almost unnaturally cool against her, a striking counterpoint to the warmth still lingering in the desert air. Whispers in the still of the night, cutting through the silence and the blackness like an edged bladed, leaves ragged tears in her psyche as his nails graze down her shoulders.

"Do you know," he smiles, smirks more than anything else, a crack in his pretty façade, chatters blithely on as if this is the simplest most common thing in the world for them, "That I once thought of you as a friend? A sister, almost." He chuckles as if the idea is far from his mind, despite the apparent sincerity of the sentiment. It's strange, it's infuriating, this helplessness. Being forced to listen while he simply purrs at her, tears at what remains of her. Finger grazing the column of her neck, inclining it ever so slightly to the side, nuzzles his nose against her jaw, "But oh, sister, how wrong I was. You loved my father but your love was…impure." The hand in her hair tightens, gives a harsh tug. She wishes she could snarl; snap that the man was hardly_ her_ father. Perhaps he sees something flash in her amber eyes, perhaps it simply an intrinsic sense.

He smells of soap and something else entirely. A familiar scent she'd grown accustomed to, though it had played about an entirely different figure. It's nearly relaxing, soothing.

"You remember that, don't you? How you loved him?" Lucas shakes his head, nose against her cheek, "Go ahead and answer. I promise I won't be angry." Nothing in his tone suggests it's even partially the truth. He plucks the soap from the water, scrubs the bruised skin of her ribs as she mulls over her answer. Soap over her shoulder, up the left side of her neck and down the right.

"I remember," she mutters. Strange, that such a confession would bring with it such bitterness. The love no longer brings her the comfort she once imagined it might, rings hollow in her chest. Love unrequited certainly will not save her; it's damned her. Little more than a vacant longing to keep her awake at night, pondering over endless what-ifs, impossible scenarios. She remembers loving, remembers wanting, remembers hoping, and remembers that, in the end, it all came crashing down around her ears. The man she supposedly loved had never come for her, had left her, executed her. And while she holds no doubts that Lucas has twisted the truth into a macabre parody of reality, she cannot deny his stories have some validity. She's been here no small amount of time and they've seen neither head nor tail of any Terra Novan.

She's been, for better or for worse, forgotten.

It stings, salt in a wound incapable of healing. Yes, she remembers love. And she is no longer so naïve as to believe it capable of delivering her.

Lucas sees the internal struggle, stifles a smile at her pain. Lifts her arm, twines their fingers together as he trails the white lather back towards her elbow. "I am sorry, Alicia. You were always good to me."

"If you're going to lie, at least do it with some conviction."

He chuckles, drops the subject. It has her guards snapping back into place. As a rule, Lucas does not simply concede points. He'll leave them to fester, to pick at another day, when the timing best suits him, but he never allows a subject to just fade away. Not without have something else to dig under her skin. The boy moves from behind her slightly, presses a hand flat against her lower back to ease her forward. Curious, she complies.

Almost immediately, his fingers find a precise spot, the back of his nail gently caressing.

"Do you remember this, lieutenant?" he mutters, idly tracing beneath her right shoulder blade, about halfway down her back. The skin barely makes contact, a ghost of warmth marking his passage rather than anything else. Considering his penchant for touch the lack of physical sensation is somehow more jarring. Almost as if he's in awe of her, frightened of whatever is there. From the repetitious movements, she's mentally able to mark his path, able to understand a little. Some design is emblazoned across her flesh, "It's was your gift to me."

"Lucas…" she closes her eyes, attempts to shift away from him without success. If he even notices her reservations he shows no sign of it. Eyes glaze slightly as he continues weaving patterns over that one spot, up and down the other side.

"One of the rare times you let your hair down once we'd established the colony," she wonders momentarily if he's even really aware of her, simply speaking towards rather than with her. A weary smile tugging at his features, "You took me out drinking on my eighteenth birthday, Lieutenant. I suppose father was…too busy over seeing his precious colony to tend to his lesser child but _you_, you took the time." He chuckles, presses his hand flat against her ribs, "And when we were both good and drunk, you took me for this."

Lucas shifts, brings his arms up for her to see. The sleeve is rolled up past his elbows. Winding about his forearm like a circlet is a tattoo, a simple black band at a glance. A bit of white amidst the darkness marking an eye. A snake devouring its tail, lacking beginning or end. Deathless, "Ourobouros; you thought it was…fitting." His smile turns wicked, "And in return, you let me choose this." She cannot simply crane her neck to see so far down her back and so contents herself with his telling. Whatever is inscribed across her skin fascinates him. As his words wash over her, breaking in soothing waves as his voice softens immeasurably, low as he speaks against her shoulder, something clicks in her head. A brief moment of absolute clarity, absolute truth, as he drags a memory from the ashes of her psyche, complete and glistening amidst the rubble. It momentarily steals the ability of conscious thought from her, lulls her into a reverie, aware only of the motion of his hand as it moves up her side.

He pauses, takes in her wide eyed expression and smiles, entirely too pleased. Nods and leans his forehead against her profile. "You remember…" She does. Even if it's nothing more than a glimpse, an excerpt from a larger story.

She'd fought with Nathaniel that night. It's impossible to recall about what, but it'd been enough to drive her from his company and towards his son. Drinking…she'd given him a bottle of scotch as a gift. The tattoo had come later, a desire to frustrate his father's more old fashioned sensibilities, her senses dulled and her frustration with his old man stoked into an almost comical rage. Lucas needed no encouragement to spite his sire and she'd been his more than willing accomplice.

The design itself owes itself to his hand; she'd taken one look at the sample patterns of the artist they'd visited and shook her head, no. Too simple, too mundane, not at all like her. Drunk as he'd been, he'd snatched a piece of paper from the affronted looking man, quickly etched the very essence of the lieutenant. And when he'd shown it to her, she'd smiled. She remembers smiling, remembers that he'd hesitantly returned the gesture and had positively beamed when she'd showered him with appreciative praise.

Remembers that the look on his face had been something almost half mad, entirely too pleased, when she'd showed him the finished product. A great elegant creature of myth. A violent, fiery death. A phoenix (and she almost snorts at the irony now), designed by none other than Lucas Taylor. He'd chosen a symbol similar to his own, painted her as his less insidious twin. A kindred spirit, another one of his father's creations, to be used and discarded as the old man saw fit. A permanent mark of his passing on the skin of his father's second. And when she'd suggested it low on her back, where it would be consistently hidden by her clothing, where his father might never see it (even drunk she somehow couldn't bear the idea of ever permanently turning against her superior; the notion had simply pained her, was immediately dismissed), he'd only smiled more widely. Cheerfully remarked that it was indeed best that daddy never see it.

It never occurred to her that his pleasure had hardly stemmed from her own satisfaction. Her head had been pleasantly buzzing and she was a remarkably pleasant drunk, flitting carelessly between her emotions. It'd simply been a gift to a friend.

"Does he know you have this?" he says finally, the movement of his hands stilling to rest over the design. An ulterior motive, as always. Does he know you have this, did you ever succeed, did your love ever lead you to conquer the man you've wanted for the better part of your life? Hell, forget love, has the old prude ever seen even seen you naked?

Her voice is almost sad, airy, "No. No, Lucas, he doesn't know." No, her love never led her to victory. Never leant her enough strength to overcome his ghosts. He was willing to accept her loyalty, her devotion, her single minded desire to please him, to serve him, but never her love. Something in her chest (not her heart, never her heart) twinges painfully.

Lucas leans her back towards him, till her back is flush against his chest. Rests his head against hers, arms coming about her waist. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

"No, Lucas, you aren't."

But she doesn't move away from him.

* * *

><p>Recovery is a long, arduous process, but after nearly two months the colony's is almost returned to its previous glory. It's been difficult, coming to terms that they truly are alone in the galaxy, but his people are nothing if not adaptable. And frankly, after their latest run in with the future, they aren't feeling particularly warm and fuzzy towards their brothers and sisters in 2149.<p>

For proprieties sake, and the one's still mourning (Wash's soldiers, her _kids_, he thinks, chuckling, are hit especially hard, desperately need some sort of closure) a funeral is held for the lieutenant the week after they recover her "body." Slowly but surely, as all must with time, they move on with their lives. No monument is erected, no plaque (it'd be difficult to explain if they ever do find her), just a simple headstone over an empty grave. Reynolds pays his respects often, leaves flowers there. Taylor, even knowing it's little more than a salve for his hurting colony, spends more time at her grave than strictly necessary. Twines her tags around his fingers.

Everything's running smooth. For the first time since the invasion, everything's back to normal. Except for one thing; one final thing before everything's perfect again. One last thing to bring home.

Wash.

Shannon and his unit had left the previous morning to scout the Badlands. When he'd given the orders, the cop had nearly covered the steps from Command in a single bound, in the Rover before he'd finished bidding goodbye to his wife. The good doctor had only shaken her head, smiled with undeniable amusement. Her husband is hardly a stationary sort of man and being confined to the colony for such a duration had driven him to the edges of his sanity. To finally be in action, searching for his friend, brings an unquestionable gaiety back to his spirits.

He smiles, readjusts Reynolds bouquet of flowers, "Hold on, Wash. Know it's been a while but we're coming to get you." It's foolish, talking when she cannot hear him, to a grave that's never (and will never, if he has any say in it) housed her body, but he won't deny the comfort it brings him.

His comm. unit vibrates. "Taylor here."

Guzman's voice comes from the other side of the line, lighter than he's heard it in a long while, "Yes, sir. Wanted you to know Shannon's units reached their destination. Video feeds up in Command."

"Tell him to hold position; I'll be in touch shortly."

For the first time in over a month, his smile is free of bitterness, absolutely light. Hope in his chest as he gives Wash's tag a reassuring squeeze before heading towards Command.

The moment he's back in his office he's barking orders, unable (and unwilling) to disguise the cheer in his voice. So damn good to be moving again, "Report, Shannon, tell me what you see."

There's a momentarily lapse and then the cops voice fills the room, "Alright sir, on first glance I'm gonna say we've got a lot of dirt, some more dirt and," Shannon pauses deliberately drawing out his sentence playfully, "Who would have thought, more dirt."

Taylor runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head amusedly. On the screen in front of him, Shannon's unit's displayed. The terrain rushing by as the Rover's rip over the desert. Jim's leaning almost halfway out of the vehicle despite its breakneck speed, searching for any potential sign of the Phoenix group. It has Reilly's eyes widening in surprise, Reynolds reaching forward in an attempt to pull him back inside. The Sherriff of Terra Nova is having none of it, delighted to finally be outside the gate after so many weeks rebuilding.

It's a feeling Taylor shares. As much as he'd enjoying being out there with them, he won't deny that simply have a search underway feels…liberating. He chuckles, "Alright cut the chatter, Shannon. You're my eyes and ears out there not my mouth."

It may be nothing more than a figment of his imagination but he almost swears he hears Reilly mutter something along the lines of, _"Then you picked the wrong guy." _From Jim's laughter, it's true.

"Not seeing anything yet, sir, but don't worry. We'll find the bastards."

For the first time in over a month, Taylor doesn't doubt that.

* * *

><p>The Badlands spreads before them like some nightmarish hellscape, an almost separate world from the lush jungles surrounding Terra Nova. Here the earth is scorched, burned beyond recognition, the sand blistering under the omnipresent sun. Any vegetation hardy enough to makes its home here is equally coarse; the creatures hardy and indiscriminately aggressive. Stray bits of debris dot the desert as it extends for miles, some rocks, some treasures from distant times, long forgotten and half devoured by the impossible climate. The air itself is colored with dirt, burning as it enters their lungs.<p>

Wash holds a hand over her eyes, attempts to shield them from the impossible light. It burns but she refuses to look away, takes a simple pleasure in the white and gold's spreading across the horizon, in color returning to her world. Beside her, Lucas chuckles, entirely too amused by her almost childish thrill for the world around her. The bastard intentionally brushes her shoulder with his own as he passes and she nearly growls at him. If he'd been a nuisance before he's absolutely impossible now, eyes trailing her as she moves through their little group. Even still, she refuses to let it dull her spirit, refuses to let the boy extend his hold on her, have any place in her thoughts.

After spending a week camped amidst the rocky outcroppings north of their current location, she's delighted with the movement, her legs eager for the exercise. Eager to having the sun kissing her skin after spending so many hours in darkness; it almost makes her situation tolerable. They've paused in their trek momentarily, and she immediately breaks off from the others. There's an impressive precipice not far off and she takes a seat on it, allows her legs to dangle over the rocky outcropping, stares out towards nothing. Massages the muscles in her thighs, still adjusting to the rigorous workout after spending so long immobile; doesn't bother to conceal the pleased smile turning her lips.

In moments such as these, alone and under her own power, she imagines she's almost content. Empty, but content. She'll cling to such simple things when she is inevitably forced to return to the Phoenix group, to Lucas' side. Inevitably, her loathing steals her of these comforts, warms her as contentment simply cannot but for the time being they buoy her on. With each fragment of her memory more disparaging then the last, she chooses these moments instead. The warmth of the sun, the begrudging respect of the Phoenix group to the half forgotten sensation of belonging to some overly idealized colony.

She leans back against the rock, warm beneath her hand. Cocks her head curiously to the side and watches an impressive dust cloud as it moves along the far to the north west of them. It's too far away to make out anything for certain but it's moving at a remarkable speed. Occasionally, she'll fancy catches a metallic flash amidst the dirt but it's gone before she can focus on it. Weaving away and further west.

Something nips at her fingers, not hard enough to draw blood, simply a gentle peck as if the creature is testing the digestibility of her hand, drawing her from her reverie. She arches a brow, looks down. A small dinosaur (no larger than the span of her hand) cocks it head to the side, stares up at her quizzically. Treads squarely on her, pecks at her forearm. When she moves her arm obligingly, it skitters back, eyes widening as if horrified to realize everything's attached. She smirks, curls one of her fingers in, rests her palm flat against the rock. And while the thing regards her with clear suspicion it doesn't run immediately.

It puffs out its tiny chest, impressive shades of orange bleeding into reds and browns, takes brave steps forward. Stops, stares at her. Another few steps. When she refuses to move it lets out a pleased cooing sound, returns to testing the consistency of her nails. She flexes her fingers a second time; it jumps back, but returns more quickly.

"Making friends, Lieutenant?"

She doesn't turn, simply nods, listens to the footsteps as Lucas moves to rest behind her shoulder. As desperately as she loathes it, she's almost become accustomed to his proximity over the last month. Uncomfortable, but tolerable. He watches her go about her game, twiddling her fingers, the small creature attacking and retreating, cooing in irritation when she chuckles as if it knows her amusement is to its detriment. "At least he's upfront about his intentions," she purrs, half turning to regard the younger man.

"I'd be offended if you weren't always so suspicious."

"Was I?" Wash sighs, manages to stoke a finger across the dinosaurs extended neck before it dances away. It lets out an affronted squeak. "Doesn't sound like a fulfilling way to go through life."

"You are what you are, I'm afraid. Though my father didn't help you any."

A chuckle, a shake of her head. She's taken to wearing her hair back again, the severe styling keeping any stray strands from falling in front of her eyes. She insists it's solely for practicality, not simply because she cannot stand the way the boy reaches out to tuck every piece behind her ear, cannot stand the presumed intimacy. "That time of the day already is it, Lucas?" Every day, every evening, another tale regaling her of her past, of his father's various failures. How he shaped her, altered her, abandoned her.

It's come to the point where she's almost willing to concede the issue if only to silence him.

Most of her life remains fuzzy, though the picture is finally near enough to lend some clarity. Never enough for her to reclaim her old identity; Lucas is entirely too careful of that. Dangles only the memories before her that recall certain, select, times to mind. More often, it's little more than a sentence, a hint for her to mull over in sleep. Attempts to alter feelings he's only partially aware she houses.

"I'd think you'd want to know about your past."

"From your telling, it was a pretty shit life." The little creature finally manages to catch her finger, nips with more vigor and lets out a triumphant cry when it draws blood. Sneaky little bugger. She lets out a hiss of breath but nods her head, conceding momentary victory to the thing. The display seems to amuse her captor. "If it's all the same to you…I'd like to figure it out myself. Just for a while."

For some reason, her words seem to confuse him, set the always composed man back a few steps. He opens his mouth to reply before his vision fixes on the cloud across the valley. Then it's nothing more than naked irritation, hideous loathing twisting the entirety of his countenance. He shakes his head, rising, tone cold, "We'll be moving in a few moments. Say goodbye to your friend, Wash."

She fights the juvenile urge to stick her tongue out at him, scowls at his departing form instead. The dinosaur lets out a pleased coo, puffs his chest out again when she stills her hand's motion. When she strokes the underside of his belly this time, he preens, appears like a little conqueror. She stares out towards the horizon, with its white and oranges, towards the dust on the far side of the valley that's so unnerved Lucas, and takes another breath. Manages to get back to her feet and trots back to camp.

Mira favors her with an openly suspicious look but makes no comment. It's no secret that the other woman is not fond of her and the feelings mutual enough for reasons she cannot fathom. The beautiful Sixer (the term has no relevance to Wash but it fits, and her mind assures her it's correct) does not trust her for her previous ties, does not appreciate how closely Lucas keeps her. Most certainly has not viewed her in a positive light since his last nocturnal visit to her bath. Remarkably shallow in the grand scheme of things, but she cannot pass judgment. Her own dislike is simply innate, based on the feelings on a woman she cannot remember.

The rest of their merry band of mercenaries gives her a wide berth. It pleases her more than it really should. There is dislike written openly on their features but it's tinged with a healthy dose of respect and admiration. Both from her past life and her ability to handle herself amidst this hellish place.

"You see those rocks ahead?" Lucas indicates a small mountains range, perhaps twenty miles south of them. The notion of them being little more than rocks amuses her but she refrains from commenting, "We'll make it there before nightfall, establish camp." His eyes catch and hold her gaze for a long moment, "With any luck, we'll have put enough distance between ourselves and," a nod towards the cloud on the horizon, "fathers intrepid scouts."

She doesn't know why the notion, half formed though it is, sends such a pleasant, hopeful sensation singing across her nerves. She clamps down on it immediately, unwilling to see her spirit dashed again.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh, geeze. I feel like a jerk. Everyone else, coming out with these adorable, lovely stories today and I'm giving you this. Sorry, loves!

Just have to say, a huge, huge, huge, _huge_ "thank you" and hug to Zoe, Inu, and g7, who were all good enough to listen to me moan and complain about this chapter. There's no way to effectively convey my appreciation for you guys, so I'll just say: you're all massively talented, entirely too lovely and perfect and just all around wonderful. Thanks for putting up with me and my…antics. *hug*

Oh. And before I forget. Bath scene. Totally Inu's fault. Not mine.


	4. Chapter 4: Hush

**A/N: **Stick with me BAMF fans; I'm still on your side, I swear. Thanks go to Inu for helping me work the Lucas and Wash bits out.

Chapter title, tone, L/W/N relationship, pretty much owes itself to _Hush_ by Coheed and Cambria. WASH CENTRIC CHAPTER AND MOOD WHIPLASH HERE WE COME!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Hush<strong>

* * *

><p>"Move your feet!"<p>

Her sharp orders falls on deaf ears; if anything, the abrupt sound of her voice only exacerbates the problem. The kid she's sparring's head snaps up, eyes wide as he attempts to get his body under control, his limbs awkward and gawky. At the last moment, he attempts to swing his leg wide (_feet_, she said, not _legs_). It leaves him precariously off balance and it takes little more than a tap to his painfully stiff knee to send him tumbling to the ground. For a long moment he simply stares up at her, face turning a vibrant shade of pink as some of the other members of their camp jeer.

Alicia runs a hand tiredly through her hair, shakes her head. A moment later, she's pulling the kid to his feet. A pair of hazel eyes focus on her, carefully hanging on each of her words. She waves his attentions idly off, adjusts his footing by gently nudging his boot with her own. Frowns, then adjusts his core so his breathing doesn't appear so labored. She almost rolls her eyes at his expression, how his smile never seems to fade. She's put him on his ass three times in the last fifteen minutes and it still hasn't dampened his spirits any.

It reminds her of someone, though she doesn't know precisely who. The thought is shunted aside for later consideration as she turns her attention back to her eager protégé.

"Remember what I told you, keep your guard up. Don't allow yourself to be distracted by what I'm doing over here," she waves her left hand idly. To her chagrin, he automatically shifts the entirety of his attention to the motion, "Because the rest of me will be doing something like this." She taps his shin with her right foot. "You got that, soldier?"

He flashes her an affectionate grin, "Yes, ma'am!"

"Alright, try again. Come on."

This has become something of a routine for her. Now that they have, for the foreseeable future, set up camp at the base of the mountains, she has the necessary time to retrain her body. Every afternoon, her feet lead her from their comfortable camp fires aside to this little…she's not entirely certain what to dub it. Glen? It doesn't seem appropriate but it's the closest term she can conjure. She's recovered enough to remember her old routine, for her body to long for its previous exertions. It's a slow, grueling task, disciplining the muscles that have grown lax over the last few weeks but the progress is nearly immediate.

By the fifth night, she finds another waiting for her in her sanctuary. Momentarily, she wonders if it isn't Lucas, stealing even this last refuge from her. But the man has been strangely absent since they arrived, departing in the morning only to return late in the night and has left her largely to her own devices. On the one hand, she rejoices, glad rid herself of his incessant fawning. She ignores the other emotions almost entirely, forces them down beneath an impenetrable wall of hatred and denial (she doesn't miss him, it isn't that at all. It's something more insidious, a sense of loss. He is, for all intents and purposes, her only link to her past life. It is that she mourns, it is that that leaves an impressive tear in her chest, filled only as he whispers poisoned words in her ears).

It's simply a boy waiting for her, no more than sixteen, perhaps seventeen. Not one of the Phoenix soldiers but one of Mira's Sixers. The kids lanky, only just having come into his height, too little weight and too accustomed to his stockier, childhood body. His features are smeared with dust, his dark hair shaggy around his ears. And when she arches a brow at him, silently demands he explain his presence here, he simply smiles, hazel eyes twinkling.

She almost hates to admit that the expression sets her back on her heels momentarily. It's simply…open. No underlying motive, no goal. Simply a smile, a genuine delight in seeing her. The kid just watches her, so she goes about her routine, ignores him. Every subsequent night, for the next three nights, she finds him waiting for her, that same smile on his face.

She'd favored him with a cursory glance, and the attention only widened that dopey grin. She took a deep breath, waved him over. And boy had the kid moved, almost skidding to a stop in front of her. So damn eager, just like someone else who'd wormed his way into her heart. Something in her bristles at that, and she settles into a more militaristic stance, hands clasped behind her back, feet slightly apart, "Care to explain why you're here, young man?"

"Watching you."

She tries not to roll her eyes but isn't sure if she's entirely successful, "Yeah, I got that. I'm curious as to your reasons."

He shrugs, "You're a pretty decent fighter. I thought maybe I could learn something."

Hmmm. It had caused her to pause. Against her better judgment, she hadn't rebuffed him, simply took in his appearance, almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Too tall, too thin, tawny skinned and absolutely ridiculous looking; she smiles, and for once doesn't have to worry about someone reading into it. The freedom's…liberating. "Would have thought Mira would be training her people."

He'd scowled, dipped his head slightly, "They think I'm hopeless."

_You don't think I'm hopeless, do you, Alicia? _

_ If we don't put some weight on, you damn well might be._

She shook her head, desperately tried to clear away the unwarranted conversation. It brings with it warmth, blossoming through her in the most absurd ways. Not love, not the same bittersweet sort that Lucas has so gleefully drug from her psyche, but something else entirely. Rooted firmly within her, leave her swelling with pride.

But the kid had looked at her with the same hazel (more green than brown) eyes, the same hopeful expression. And something within her had simply preened, reached out to embrace this second chance, the reincarnation. Her voice had sounded strange to her own ears, far away, "What's your name, kid?"

"William, ma'am."

_ Mark, ma'am. And I'm not hopeless._

She simply stared at the kid, nodded, half aware, and said, "Pleased to meet you, William. And I promise you, you're not hopeless."

At the moment, she's not entirely certain she had been correct.

The kid's improved but she fights the urge to chuckle as he lunges clumsily towards her. From the side of their improvised ring a few members of their audience begin yelling tips (and she wonders, absently, when her personal refuge turned into a spectator sport. Oddly, she can't say she minds), a few of the Phoenix soldiers echoing her earlier sentiment (Watch where you're going, move your damn feet, watch the left hand, the bitch is bringing her leg up…well damn).

Will goes flying again, a pile of limbs as he spits a mouthful of dust. To his credit, he's back on his feet almost instantly, ready to go at her again. It sends an irrational surge of pride through her. No matter how many times he falls, he'll always get back up. It's the first thing she teaches (it's something she knows intrinsically, just as she knows she'd learned it from another) and something all her successful students learn.

"Come on kid, you at least have to clip her," it's a disgruntled merc. The one whose ankle she'd busted early in her tenure here. She flashes him a wicked grin, wordlessly goads him to continue on that line of thought, try his hand at a rematch. He shies back immediately, silences.

"I don't _want _to hit her!"

She catches his wrist as he swings at her, curls in towards his chest and taps him lightly on the abdomen, another on the shoulder, taps his knee with her foot. Three hits to none, "If you don't want to hit me, you're never going to. Now focus, and come at me again."

"But I _like_ you."

Wash almost laughs, "Yeah, kid, and I'll like _you_ a lot more when you prove you can do this. Now hurry up and hit me. Not getting any younger over here." Back into her crouch she goes, balances lightly on her feet, ready to spring into action. Leaves an opening in her right side; the more experienced soldiers see it immediately and chuckle. Applaud her as a good sport.

He frowns at her but complies, moves to attack again.

She settles into a more defensive rhythm, ducking and weaving through his strikes. It's simple, his strikes predictable. Recovering though she is, there's still no possible way he'll hit her. It allows her mind to wander pleasantly as her body reacts almost solely on instinct. And her mind is instantly aware that the cheers and very sounds around them have faded to near nonexistence. Most of them have simply cleared off, those remaining attempting to edge away. Her eyes are almost instantly drawn to the figure leaning easily against a rock, attention focused solely on her. In the evening light, the firelight flickering on his skin, Lucas arches a brow, obviously amused by her chosen diversion.

She hears the kid shout out a warning and it flicks her attention back to the fight. A second too late she registers the fist coming towards her head, manages to break her course but it grazes her jaw, causes her teeth to click. She blinks rapidly to dispel the pain, stares at her student.

Will is staring at her in horror, holds out his hands, "I'm…I didn't…"

Clapping from Lucas' direction. He addresses the boy though his gaze never once wavers from the woman. "Well done, kid. You've joined the ranks of a select few; such an honor." He clasps a (un)friendly hand on his shoulder, squeezing more tightly than strictly necessary, smiles with too many teeth, "Go celebrate. I need to discuss something with your…." He smirks, "Teacher."

The younger man looks confused, flicks a gaze between their leader and the woman he's spent the better part of the last two weeks with. Doesn't make to move. Wash nods slightly, tossing a glance towards the camp. He frowns a little but doesn't fight her, reaches out to clasp her arm lightly before moving past her. Even the small gesture has Lucas fuming, staring after the kid as he moves away. His words are very nearly spat.

"You always had a soft spot for fatherless boys."

She brushes a stray bit of dirt from her fatigues, pointedly ignores him. Strangely, it fails to illicit the reaction she's come to expect, dusk lending him an entirely different sort of energy. More coiled, more subdued then his nocturnal incarnation. She's not entirely certain it's an improvement.

Instead of hands gliding down her shoulders, mapping the contours of muscles that protest his presence, he simply stares, catalogues each of her movements, measures them carefully as if against some mental yard stick. Doesn't rage at her, or demand she validate his presence. Simply draws almost physical patterns down her figure with his eyes, the force enough to cause her no small measure of discomfort, every bit as invasive. Perhaps more so. What he can touch is limited, leaves him at her whim. She cannot shield herself from whatever images play within his mind, cannot prevent whatever debasements he chooses to subject her too. He permits her see them, flickering and dancing in eyes nearly glowing with evening light, allows it because it's maddening to her inner strength. An enemy she may see but is powerless to fight.

But she doesn't shift, doesn't stiffen, simply arches a brow. Acknowledges his bait but refuses to rise to it.

Something flashes across his expression, curiosity, macabre fascination as her muscles coil beneath her skin, every inch of her priming to rebuff him. Unfocused, speaking again to some ghost, a woman with her face but a life no longer her own, "You often sparred my father," she nods, inclines her head to the side, the tail of her hair fluttering against her bare back. The movement catches his attention; mentally, she watches as he twines the dark hair about his fingers, hand fisting to draw her head roughly back. But only mentally; he doesn't move towards her, simply continues his game, etches her on his conscious mind, "I've never had the pleasure."

"You never showed any interest."

He tilts his head to the side, a wide smile, easy and disarming and halfway feral, playing idly about the corners of his mouth, eyes twinkling with something nearly inhuman, "Are you certain?" The younger man begins taking steps around her, paces in slowly shrinking circle about her. It's a familiar tactic, if the wrong one, a failed attempt to unnerve her. A show, more than anything else, theatrics for her benefits. They are both aware his threats have little sway over her, that physically she is more than his equal. But he moves around her, a constant presence, surrounding her, commanding her attention. She holds her ground, squares her shoulders and stares pointedly ahead. From the toothy nature of his expression, the clear lack of affection, his attention cannot be missed, a predatory glint in those blue-green eyes. Lazy grace as he moves around her, some great desert hunter.

Shame then, that she is not prey.

Lucas comes to a stop behind her, arms reaching out, briefly hesitating before they come to rest on her waist, fingers digging at her hip, biting at the bone beneath, leaving inelegant crescents to mark his presence. She remains passive. Enough to cause her flesh, and she despises the cliché, to crawl. The sensation, as unpleasant as it is, is a fascinating sort of contact, devoid of the haze that so often accompanies her feelings now. It's clear, poignant, even if she despises it. There is no gray where Lucas is involved. There is only a warming feeling, both similar and dissimilar to the feelings she recalls harboring for his sire, a loathing that transcends this life and extends to her prior one. The unique scent of him surrounding her, earth and blood, leather and a particular quality she associates more closely with Nathaniel.

There is no gray, and so she remains passive, fingers ghosting up over her ribs. Pauses there. Arms remain limp at her sides, inwardly seething, feels her muscles, each of them humming with energy, ready. She doesn't turn, doesn't need to. Feels him smile as he bends to press a kiss to the exposed skin of her shoulder. Poisonous, enough to turn her lips in a snarl.

"No, I don't suppose I did," fingers up, brushes the underside of a breast, "And did my father show any interest?" The unspoken "_in you_" hangs on the air between them.

She takes a withering breath, slightly bemoans his insistence on repetition. How many times has she played this game with him? How many times has he gleefully turned this knife in her ribs? One would think he'd have tired of it; one would suspect she'd simply grown calloused, that the gibes would no longer have such a sting. One would be wrong on both accounts; he does not tire, and, somehow, it never hurts any less. She turns and he permits her. He lacks his father height, his father's strength, stands at her eye level. "Never, Lucas."

"And why was that?" Clasps behind her neck, winding in her hair.

"He didn't love me," spoken easily, lightly, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. He didn't love me; I've come to terms with it. He didn't love me, as if it doesn't rend her heart, leave her bleeding and simpering. Her expression carefully schooled with years of military finesse, only a glimpse of pain buried deep beneath the amber hue of her eyes. He smiles, sees it, always sees it. It's a hurt of his own creation, fingers twisting and digging at a wound he has painstakingly inflicted.

He presses lips to her forehead, speaks against her in a breath, "My father is a fool, Lieutenant."

Something in her stirs at that, protests violently. The statement scrapes against her nerves, infuriates her more than it aught. She gives a rough shove, lips curling up in a smirk as he stumbles back, confused, the unnatural calm of her tone strikingly dissimilar to the clear frustration coursing through her figure, "You're lying."

"Are you certain?"

"I am." And she is.

He takes steps towards her again, arms outstretched, "A deluded fool, Alicia. Who left you to die for _his _dream, for _his_ future, for _his_ glory. Who was willing to take everything you could ever offer, used you. And when you had outlived your usefulness…"

"He left me to die," she snaps, "I've heard it before."

"Did he love you?"

"No."

"Did he leave you?"

"Yes."

"Then why defend him? Why?" reaches out a hand, turns her, back to his chest, breathing in her ear again, voice smooth to slide over her senses, caress and soothe. Pacify her, break her. Steel rasping along her nerves, poorly veiled beneath silk. "He never saw you, Alicia, no matter how desperately you threw yourself at his feet, bled yourself for his cause. My father was blind, shorted sighted; an arrogant fool, too proud to see the goddess doing obeisance to him."

Her arm lashes out before she can think better of it, elbow driving back with impressive force to collide with his ribs. The man lets out a surprised whoosh of air, finds himself staring heavenward as his legs are taken out from under him. He stares at her as if she's lost her mind. Perhaps she has (strange, how frequently she's been considering that) but this is infinitely superior to hearing his drivel, standing idly by as he tears her soul from her a second time. Stand idly by as he disparages her Commander.

"Get up, Lucas."

He does, slowly, eyes never leaving her, "Tell me why you defend him, Lieutenant." When he takes steps towards her, she easily sidesteps, catches his hand and twists. He follows the movement through, accepts the awkward angling to bring himself back into contact with her. Loops one of his legs about hers. He has no interest in truly fighting her, simply teasing. Her booted foot connects squarely with his shin; a heave forward sends him tumbling over her, again down on his back in an almost direct mimicry of her earlier bout. This time he looks mildly frustrated.

She glares down at him, makes a summoning motion with her hand, again commands, "Get up, Lucas."

Again, he does. This time, he approaches her more cautiously, back to weighing each of her movements. Compared to his father (the vague memories she has of him) he's clumsy, far less light on his feet. Impressive, undoubtedly well trained, but a lesser incarnation for certain. He's fast, miserably so, and she's still recovering. His open palm barely misses her face. It leaves him off balance, her hands coming to rest on either of his shoulders, pulls him down as her knee jerks up, connects squarely with his gut. Her fist connects with his jaw with a resounding snap a moment later.

When she dances back, he remains kneeling on the ground, a hand pressed to his lips. The fingers come away red, the crimson liquid beading before dripping idly downwards over his wrists.

"Get up."

He does not. Stares at her as if she's a hateful echo from his past. Not an echo, no that isn't the problem at all, is it? For the first time in two months, he sees her. Truly sees her. What she was and not what she is. The Alicia Washington who had served his father, the Alicia Washington who had met death with defiance and pride rather than fear. And there is only loathing in his eyes momentarily, the façade of charm stripped aside.

"Get _up_, Lucas." He refuses. This time, it is she who smirks, lips curling back in the same feral expression he'd only just favored. Circles him, lazy grace and naked pride, "Your father wouldn't concede, Lucas. Your father would fight until he couldn't get to his feet. And even then he wouldn't submit. But as you're so fond of saying, you aren't your father." Her fingers, sliding over the muscles of his shoulders, twining in his hair, "You're far less. Even I can remember _that_."

Contrary to her expectations, the boy does not throw himself at her in a clumsy rage. He remains on his knees before her, his smile dark, macabre, with blood smeared across his teeth. Shakes his head and simply sighs. Climbs to his feet and flicks the crimson liquid from his fingers before tucking his hand in his pocket. "I am sorry for this, you know."

She doesn't have an opportunity to ask what he's talking about. He's moving towards her again. Reaches out to catch her wrist; when she twists inwards rather than outwards (she always has been too damn aggressive), he clasps a vice like arm about her waist, holds her momentarily flush against him. "Whatever you may believe, Lieutenant, I don't enjoy doing this. You're far more entertaining under your own compulsion." There's a sharp jolt of pain, familiar coolness. The bastard has the gall to waggle the empty syringe in front of her face. Her knees almost immediately give way, sinking beneath her weight as her muscles simply slacken. He doesn't catch her, lets her fall. Turns her over with a boot to her ribs.

Gray steeling over her again; Lucas shaking his head in mock disappointment as he crouches over her, brushes an errant strand of hair out of her eyes. "Such a shame. You'd been such a good girl and now this." His thumb, gently brushing across her lower lip, "And now you'll have to be punished."

She hopes he sees the rage in her eyes. If his smirk is anything to go by as he gathers her up, he does.

* * *

><p>She's kept on an almost comically tight leash after her assault on him. Her quarters are taken from her; the next day she's moved to Lucas' tent. For her own protection, she believes is the official explanation, not that he needs to give one. It's a juvenile sort of punishment. He demands she sleep beside him, not out of any desire to have her, but simply because it infuriates her. His very presence demands her attention, demands her guard remain constantly up. With him at her back, an arm thrown lazily across her waist, sleep is impossible. He chuckles when he awakens in the morning, presses an almost affectionate kiss to her cheek. Has the gall to ask how her night was. After three days, she's nearly delirious.<p>

She winces as she moves over the rock, trailing after the group. The entirety of her body aches, new bruises blossoming across her face and a decent portion of the rest of her. A gift for her disobedience, she supposes, though in the grand scheme of things, he'd been playing nice. There are worst things in his repertoire.

And what has the world come to when she takes comfort in such a hollow thing?

He takes her with him on his little excursions now. Has her wandering the hills with him, searching for something he refuses to put a name to. A portal, she thinks she hears one of the men whispering, but it has little meaning to her, just another word without context. Each day they return without success and it leaves him fuming, clearly furious that, despite his intellect, he can't pinpoint its location. It leaves hers smirking at him, reveling in his successive failures. Each day leaves him more frustrated, each day leaves her morbid joy intact.

There's very little to look at in the Badlands. It leaves her longing for the jungles to the north. Her attention flicks idly from nothing to nothing, as they move until one of the soldier's voices calls her from her reverie.

"Movement to the west, sir."

Lucas barely glances over his shoulder, squints into the distance, "One of my father's?"

"Yes, sir."

He smirks, except the proffered pair of binoculars. The expression becomes positively wicked as some realization dawns on him. He almost shoves the things into her hands, "Take a look, Lieutenant. See if you can't remember something."

Her most recent rebellion and its aftereffects are enough to squelch her urge to snap at him; she accepts them wordlessly, raises the binoculars to her eyes.

Even with the tool it's difficult to see through the glare. With some effort she can very clearly make out a lone figure on the rocky outcropping. Clad all in black field armor. A scout, from the looks of things. Wash frowns, zooms in.

Her chest contorts painfully.

Reynolds.

It's Reynolds. Tired, dirty, and exhausted but most assuredly him, the kid her memories so eagerly held onto. She doesn't need to hear his voice, anything to know it's him. She glances up at Lucas; finds the man waiting, judging her reaction. She remains impassive despite her inner turmoil.

"You know him?" So deceptively cool, almost glibly light.

And she replies in much the same tone, shakes her head, dark hair fluttering in front of her face, "I don't remember him." She lies. And if he notices or catches her, he most certainly doesn't show it. He motions one of the soldiers over, takes the rifle from his back. Tests the weight, glances through the scope. Evidently satisfied, he presses it in her hands. She scowls.

"If you don't know him, you won't have a problem disposing of him, will you?"

"I'm not a murderer, Lucas."

"Strange sentiment for a soldier. I'm sure I could find some Somali's who heartily disagree with you," it's a low blow; summons up ugly memories or at least shards of them. Ugly, because at least in the basest sense of the word, he's correct. She's killed and done so often. Licks her lips and glances down at the gun in her hands. Lucas kneels behind her, smiles as he takes her chin in hand, "But if it doesn't sit with those noble sensibilities of yours, I can have one of my men take care of him. Would you prefer that?"

It takes a decent portion of her lauded control to still her desire to violently protest. To simply bite off a sharp no. Instead, she scowls at him, squares her jaw and jerks her head away from his grasp. Holds the rifle, reacquaints herself with the weight. Her body remembers it well enough, relaxes into the proper positioning. Aims, settles the crosshairs on Reynolds.

Lucas' voice purrs in her ear before she's finished taking aim, lightly chiding, "And remember, Lieutenant. I am aware of your skill with a rifle. As a rule, you do not miss. And I will know if you're…pulling your shots."

He's silenced by the sound of the rifle going off, the bullet tearing through the air towards the unknowing boy. The shot, even to the trained eye, is perfect. A moment later and the boy goes down, clutching his left shoulder, dangerously near his heart. Falls from the outcropping a ways, tumbles into the small ditch near the bottom. She shoves the gun back in his hands, "Then I'm glad I didn't have to pull my shot. You know I'd hate to disappoint you."

She doesn't look over her shoulder, simply keeps walking, inwardly rejoices when she hears the others following on her heels. Prays, to whatever higher power might be listening to her (though, all things considered, she's fairly certain no one's there) that the kid's backup will realize what's happened.

Prays that Lucas doesn't think to look back.

* * *

><p>Shannon is only vaguely aware of what's happening. One minute Reynolds is standing, reporting in, a hand over his eyes to shield his vision from the sun and the next he's gone. The sheriff is immediately glancing towards the mountains to the east. There's a hint of something moving, a blur of black against the predominate browns of the terrain. A flash and then it's gone.<p>

There's a brief moment of hesitation as each of his muscles tenses, prepares to leap into action. Something dangerously close to panic washing over his nerves before he can still it; he's already lost Wash, he's not going to lose the kid as well, not going to put Maddy through that hurt. He glances over the top of the rock he's crouched behind, tries to locate the figures again. He's able to make out three of them, perhaps a fourth. Two are assuredly male, at least one female. The latter turns away, her face obscured by a wave of dark hair, the wind whipping it in her face. He lowers his binoculars, glances towards where Reynolds assuredly lies, bleeding.

There's a chance they'll see him, hell, if they even have an idea of what they're doing they _will _see him. It's a risk he's willing to take; from the look of things they're turning away. He hails Reilly as he moves, low to the ground, using the natural cover to his advantage. Pauses briefly behind a boulder large enough to shield him from any remaining members of their party, "Reilly, you copy?"

The young woman's familiar voice floods the line, calm as ever, "Reading you, sir."

"Saw movement on the east ridge, see if you can't make something of it," her affirmative is clipped, professional, as she moves to comply. He hears the rustle of fabric and underbrush as she moves, hasty steps still silent as she crosses the distance between them. "And Reilly?" She doesn't respond, but the sounds on her end assure him she's still listening, "Keep it simple. I'd really prefer not having to tell Taylor I've lost another one of his girls."

Brief silence, then, "Yes, sir; Reilly out."

Another glance towards the ridge; there's nothing. Shannon mentally counts to three, closes the distance, slides down the brief incline to where the younger man had last been standing. The dirt forms a cloud and he inwardly curses, prays they had indeed departed. He exhales a breath of the filth, feels it burning in his lungs. Reynolds is lying at the bottom of the ditch, a hand clutched tightly to his left shoulder, a rag held tightly over the wound. The material is drenched a worrying crimson, the blood pooling over his fingers, smears them in the sickly liquid. The kid lets fixes him with a hard stare, unwilling to show weakness even now. Unwillingly to admit precisely how much pain he's in.

Definitely one of Wash's.

Reynolds winces as he attempts to shift into a more dignified position, offers him a curt nod as he moves to kneel beside him, "Mr. Shannon." A simple greeting, as this is some commonplace activity for him, like he's greeting him in the market rather than bleeding in the desert. There's only a minor hesitation to each of his words, the end wobbling a bit as he attempts to hide the damage he's suffered.

"Reynolds," Jim frowns, takes the cloth from the young man. Frowns at the blood; the bullet's nowhere near hitting anything fatal, located entirely too high, too far to the left, but it's bleeding profusely. He sheds his jackets, tears a long strip from the thick fabric. Leans the soldier forward with one hand while applying the appropriate amount of pressure to the wound; the force has Mark groaning.

He shakes his head lightly, eyes swimming with pain, "Think they shot me, sir."

"Something like that, kid," the clothes damp now, his fingers stained with his daughter's boyfriend's blood. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been shot, sir," Shannon scowls at the younger man. The one time he decides to behave like a smart ass. Mark looks properly contrite, offers a wobbly, apologetic smile. "Think I can move if that's what you're asking."

"That's what I want to hear," gently, he lifts the kid's right arm, sets it over his own shoulders. For a moment he's carrying the majority of the young man's weight. Mark screws his eyes shut momentarily, bite back a groan and stills. Jim waits patiently for it to pass before trying to move again. With each successive step, strength returns to the kid, carefully easing his weight off his girlfriend's father. It's a small adventure, trying to get out of the ditch but is manageable with enough work. They pause to catch their breath.

Shannon throws a final glance towards the ridge, unable to shirk the strange feeling pooling in his gut. It's odd, something he can't exactly put a name to. A hint of dread, tinged with hope, colored with excitement. That perhaps it had been one of Lucas' men. That maybe, just maybe, it had been Wash up there. He doesn't give himself time to dwell on it, pushing forward with single minded determination. So use hoping, so use considering things he has no control over when he's got a bleeding companion.

They cover the distance to the Rovers with surprising haste. Reynolds is left resting on a small rock, attempting to catch his breath while the sheriff fetches the med kit from their vehicle. It's enough to set him back a bit, consider whether risking bleeding to death might be preferable. From the ways the boys face blanches, Jim assumes he's heard tale of his skill from either Maddy or the Lieutenant. And hell, he's not good, most certainly not his wife.

But after the first shot of morphine, Reynolds isn't feeling much anyway. By the time evening descends, the sun setting in attractive shades of pinks and reds, flickering off of nonexistent surfaces and casting strange shadows across their camp, they've got him resting comfortable, dozing off, his shoulder bandaged, the bleeding stopped. It'll require additional treatment when they return to the colony but for the moment it'll hold. Shannon waits patiently, listens to the measured, if slightly labored, breathing of the young man beside him, comm.. unit in hand. Waits for to hear something, anything, come across the channels.

The suns set before contact's made and he's pacing the length of their camp, reorganizes the equipment in the Rover. Looks for anything to keep himself busy; cooks something resembling a decent meal. Just as his patience is beginning to wear thin, his worry beginning to overcome his buoyed spirits, he hears the brief crackle of sound from his pocket.

A moment later and a soft voice fills the air, simultaneously tired and…

Excited. Certainly hopeful, a change for the traditionally reserved young woman, "Reilly reporting in, sir."

"I've got you, Reilly."

He almost hears the smile in her voice, hears her running a hand through her hair, "You want the good news or the bad news?"

"Does anyone ever take the good news first?"

She chuckles, "Not that I know of. Bad news, these boys are a hell of a distance from our Rover." Distance is easily covered and so he simply nods; ridiculous, as she can hardly see it. He shifts from one foot to the other, exchanges a glance with Reynolds. The young man is staring at him with new awareness, patiently hanging on each of his fellow soldier's words. Remarkably lucid and Jim has to respect him for that. "As for the good news…don't know if I even believe it myself, sir."

"Out with it, Reilly."

"It's the Lieutenant, sir. I don't know how, but it's definitely her. She's here."

Mark's breath catches in his throat, his eyes widening. For a second, the kid looks like he might suffer a heart attack. Or worse, leap to his feet and start his injury bleeding anew. Shannon holds up a pacifying hand, a not so subtle order for him to remain seated. It earns him a displeased look but there's nothing more for it. The soldier does not protest and for once Shannon finds himself grateful for the kid's rigid adherence to military codes of conduct.

The two lock eyes, "Reilly, you still reading me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Transfer me the coordinates of the camp and get back to the Rover immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Neither exchanges pleasantries, simply close the channel. Mark stares at him as he fetches the spare rifle from the back of the vehicle. Looks as if he's considering fighting his way to his feet before thinking better of it. Shannon doesn't offer a goodbye, turns to march in the direction of the Phoenix's camp. It's only a tired voice from behind him that stills his movement. Nothing more than a simple phrase, exhausted, too tired to hope.

"If the Lieutenant's out there, Sir…"

"Then I'll bring her back, Reynolds. Nothing else to it."

The answer seems to pacify the younger man. Reynolds simply nods his agreement. Doesn't protest as the other man slides off into the shadows, picks his way across the treacherous terrain.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I apologize for this chapter; I am most certainly not satisfied with it. The original draft got too long and had to be split in half so this first part is significantly less…eventful. But it's necessary for the second half. Originally you were going to get some breakout action, reunion times, a few tears, but noooooo. So…next chapter. HEY! If I'm feeling nice I might even treat you to some Taylor! Because we need some Taylor. But for reals. Don't worry Bamfs, our couples getting close. :D


	5. Chapter 5: Tainted

**A/N:** You all are really too lovely, you know that? Here's the next chapter. There are reunion times. Not THE reunion times, but reunions regardless.

One more thing: mypairingofchoiceisNathaniel/AliciaIswearIswearIsweardont'tkillmeIlikeliving!

ANOTHER WASH CENTRIC CHAPTER AND BREAK OUT TIMES HERE WE COME!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Tainted<strong>

* * *

><p>It's very nearly dawn when Shannon arrives at Reilly's coordinates.<p>

The camp, hardly to his surprise is almost rigidly organized, strictly adheres to military protocol despite its inhabitants dubious nature. Not surprisingly really; Lucas is a scientist, yes, but he's still a Taylor. And if there's one things Taylor's demand of their worlds it's order. Chaos is something to triumph over, to conquer and subdue, but not to live in and there's not even a trace of it here.

Begrudgingly as it's given, he has to admit its worthy of respect. Guards walk the perimeter but they are rather widely spaced, slower. Sentries are placed every few hundred feet despite the gaps it leaves in their defenses. Not surprising. They're in the middle of nowhere, the only other humans on the planet far to the north. Any wildlife will make its presence known far earlier. This is a show, an attempt to keep his trigger happy guards occupied and nothing more.

He could slip in almost unnoticed, he doesn't doubt this. Hell, he could probably hide himself within the camp before anyone was aware one of their guards is missing. Glances up at the horizon. It's a beautiful pinkish hue, the light only barely cresting the horizon. It's also means it's going to get damn bright very, very rapidly. More than that, moving through the night has left him tired, less light on his feet than stealth requires.

There's a small ravine not far from the encampment and he resolves to return to it momentarily for some rest. It'll effectively shield him, both from their scouts and the scorching sun, allow him to return quickly enough once darkness falls. Flattening himself against the boulder he's crouched beside, he does a final once over, searches for his friend amidst their numbers. It's early yet, but somehow he keeps expecting to see her face, needs to see her face. Needs to know that she's still alive.

Shannon isn't entirely certain if he believes in a god. At the moment, he's muttering frenzied thanks to him, the words silent in the still of morning.

Lucas emerges from one of the larger tents near the far side of camp, distanced a ways from the rest of the grunts. For privacy undoubtedly. He holds the flap open patiently enough, a patronizing smirk turning his features. A moment after, Alicia emerges, her dark hair fluttering around her shoulders; her features are bruised but she doesn't seem to have suffered any permanent damage and for this he thanks whatever higher power has chosen to grant them mercy, small though it is. He says something to her and she scowls, snaps a quick reply before marching off. The young man stares after her a moment before strolling lazily in the same direction, hands tucked lightly in his pockets. It's…strange, to say the least.

What's worse, Wash seems to stop before she's put too much distance between them. Waits patiently enough for him to return to her side; they fall easily into step and while the scowl never once wavers she shows no inclination towards moving away. Ten minutes or so later she returns to the tent alone, she waits, shifts irritably from one foot to the other. Another two minutes and Lucas joins her. Evidently whatever had caused them to awaken so early had not been pressing. And if her expression is anything to go by the misstep has pissed Wash off. As before, Lucas says something. And while she continues to bristle there is no denying that her disposition softens, allows him to take her arm, lead her back inside.

As a cop, he can't say he's surprised. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. Lucas is handsome, charming when the mood takes him, and Wash is undoubtedly suffering through conditions he can't begin to fathom. That they should have developed some sort of rapport is almost expected. It's no less jarring however. Perhaps the only consolation is that she remains remarkably sure of herself, her inner fire, the strength that simply composites _her_ is still intact.

He's stayed in the same location too long. He needs to move, has to if he's going to have an chance at getting her out of there. Begins edging his way down the boulder. To his horror, the small rock beneath his left foot gives way. The distance is not great but he lands in an awkward heap, dust swirling around him. And if those scouts are worth their salt, even have the slightest idea what they're doing, they're going to come investigating. He rushes to his feet (his ankle protests, sends a warning jolt of pain up his leg, but nothing's broken) moves as quickly as he's able away from the position, back towards the ravine. It's not terribly deep but in short order he's able to tuck himself securely beneath one of the edges.

He hears feet above him sometime later.

And then a woman's booted foot on the edge. She hops down into his line of sight easily. He doesn't need to see her face to recognize her. The unique styling of the hair, the elegant tattoos on her arm make it more than obvious. Mira runs her gaze over the ravine with a critical eye, searching for the disturbance, her steps nearly soundless across the dirt. It'll all be over in a moment and there's very little he can do about it. The position he's wedged himself into is awkward and if she so much as looks up she'll undoubtedly know where's he's hidden. More than that, if she's armed, he won't be able to react fast enough to defend himself. Ever the optimist, he chooses to buoy his spirits. Maybe she won't turn. Maybe someone will call her away. Maybe she just won't see him.

Evidently, his luck chooses to run out.

The woman turns, inclines her head lightly to the side, trains her rifle on him almost immediately, a wry smile turning her lips, "Shannon. Why am I not surprised?"

Well, damn.

* * *

><p>"William?"<p>

The Sixer boy looks up quickly as she exits the tent, still pulling on one of her borrowed jackets, smiles and jumps to his feet. It's still too early in the morning for his exuberance; she holds up a hand, silently petitions him to calm. The change is immediate and he stills, though the affection remains dancing around the corners of his eyes, "Yes, ma'am?"

"I need to speak with Lucas; you know where I could find him?" He looks openly surprised about that, as if confused that the man would be separated for her. Not surprising considering his recent behavior. But she'd awoken alone, blankets drug up to her neck, tucked around her in a manner she'd almost deem affectionate. She hadn't questioned his absence at the time, was simply to grateful for the moment of solitude. Now, she's both surprised and suspicious.

Her protégé trots along behind her slightly, shakes his head, "Haven't seen him seen this morning, ma'am. Left with Ms. Mira." She almost chuckles at the moniker but refrains, allows him to continue running through his thoughts, "Been busy with our new arrival."

She stops abruptly and it leaves the boy fumbling momentarily, almost has him crashing into her, "What new arrival?"

"Terra Novan. Mira found him snooping around the camp a little before dawn."

"He's been here since _dawn_?" Reminds herself that she's not in charge, has very little authority here. A part of her is remarkably put out over such a thing, that something so important had occurred and she's only just been made aware of it. Readily forgets that she's little more than another prisoner here, not the Lieutenant; substitutes the almost immediate _Why didn't I_ with the more appropriate, "Did Lucas know?"

"Yes, ma'am."

And he hadn't told her. She grinds her teeth lightly, "Can you take me to where they're keeping him?"

He nods jerkily, beings strolling away rather than offering a reply. The location is not far, closer to the middle of the camp than anything else, near from the medical tent. From its plain appearance she assumes it's nothing more than one of the supply tents, retrofit to suit this particular need. When they're standing at the entrance, the Sixer kid shies back. "If it's all the same to you, I'll stay out here, ma'am."

Wash gives him an appreciative pat on the arm before sliding into the tent.

Lucas and Mira are engaged in a hushed conversation on the far side of the enclosure, their gaze shifting from each other to the man sitting cross legged on the ground, his hands cuffed. There are a few scrapes marring his features but he's looks (remarkably, considering his captors) otherwise healthy. The Terra Novan, undoubtedly. His eyes warm immediately as she enters. It's enough to slow her pace momentarily. On the one hand, he's an almost absurdly handsome representation of his gender, is sporting what can only be the most disarming smile she's ever had the pleasure of having turned on her and, by all rights, should have her reduced to a giggling mess.

On the other, all of the afore mentioned things irritate her for reasons she cannot for the life of her understand. She scowls at him and that causes his grin to widen.

Taylor's son cock s his head to the side, carefully weighs her reaction as she enters. Decides that there's nothing to concern himself over in her expression. Simple confusion. Irritation. Mira simply nods, dismisses herself wordlessly. It leaves her feeling oddly puzzled, first that she hadn't been informed as to this man's arrival, second that they are now so accepting of the interruption.

The younger man smiles, extends his hand to her. Beckons her as if he's suddenly under the impression he has such control over her. She remains precisely where she stands, arms crossed over her chest. It doesn't seem to surprise him, simply chuckles, closes the distance between them. A hand brought to rest near her elbow, fingers tightening in warning when he feels her begin to resist.

"There's someone here to see you, Lieutenant," he throws a glance towards their prisoner. For a moment she's under the impression that the man would wave at her if his hands weren't bound. It's an absurd notion, but he strikes her as the sort, one who's spent the majority of his life in the company of hardship, troubles, and has simply come to tolerate it, welcome it, greet it with a smile rather than sour spirits. "All the way from Terra Nova. It only took them two months to concern themselves over you."

The man shrugs, "What's a guy to do? You never return my calls."

"Last time it was deaf, why am I not surprised that now you're playing dumb?"

"Dumb? I'm wounded, Lucas."

Against her better judgment, she finds herself smirking. It earns her an impressive glower but she cares very little, pointedly ignores him, "What's your name, soldier?"

Something like hurt briefly flashes in his eyes but it's buried immediately, "Damn, was hoping you'd at least remember _me_. So many nights wasted regaling you with my adventures."

"Jim Shannon, Lieutenant. Your replacement as my father's right hand."

"I'm a clumsy left at best," he offers lightly.

She barely hears him, focuses on steeling her emotional state, keeping her expression neutral. The name does not bring with it ultimate clarity but it summons hideous images, a stabbing, impossible pain in her head that nearly crosses her eyes. Smells smoke, the tell tale scent of explosive powder, death and hope only just rekindled. Remembers running, falling, remembers struggling against her captors. Surrendering willingly.

"You have a family Shannon?" Her tone airy, distant. He doesn't respond, knows it's because of Lucas, still hovering at her side, a fascinated expression on his features. It matters little. His silence is every bit as effective. Knows intrinsically that he does. Remembers ordering…shit, what was it?

Shakes her head. Doesn't matter. It can't matter.

Someone calls from outside the tent, one of the mercs, their pitch remarkably desperate. It has all of them turning. When she moves to accompany him, Lucas holds up a restraining hand. "Stay. See if he doesn't'," he smirks, gives a strand of her hair a nearly playful tug, completely at odds with the possessive glint in his eyes, "jog your memory." And then he's gone.

She's immediately suspicious, stares after him. The man doesn't simply leave her. Especially not with strange men with any ties to her past. Takes a deep breath and turns to regard their prisoner; receives another sharp jolt of pain in her skull for it. There's something like understanding on the other man's face in that moment, naked guilt, a desire to make amends. Runs a hand tiredly through her hair, shifts from foot to foot, restless.

"How you holding up, Wash?" He's remarkably cheerful for a prisoner, indicates the patch of ground beside him. Glancing around first to guarantee Lucas is assuredly gone; she takes a seat beside him, hands hanging limply over her knees. There's an ugly purple discoloration flowering over the skin there, circular contusions that look ominously akin to fingerprints. It amuses her to watch them twist and contract as she rotates her hand, morbid though it is, has come to accept them as little more than an inelegant extension of herself. He takes in her bruises with distress but for the whole of things looks remarkably satisfied with her physical condition. It's…unnerving. Both being sized up and having another openly express their concern.

A moment of silence passes between them as she considers his questions. Finds that she can't truly offer him an answer. Her life no longer has context, very little meaning. It's only the Shannon man nudging her shoulder lightly with his own that draws her away from her thoughts. It's an intrusion she's grateful for. Shakes her head lightly to clear the fog away, watches her wrists, fingers stretching, retracting, bending, the movements elegant, distracting. Focuses on that instead of the man watching her carefully, attempting to offer comfort. She doesn't need it.

Inclines her head lightly to the side, turns slightly to catch his gaze, "I'd like to say I've been better but…" she shrugs.

"Can't remember?"

"Yeah," the Lieutenant chuckles, the sound almost bitter on the air between them. It's not, not entirely at least, the emotion closer to begrudging acceptance. She's damn tired of concerning herself over whatever the hell she once was, refuses to be bothered over it any longer. "Something like that."

"Well, I can't speak for the rest of your life but we," he motions lazily between the two of them with his cuffed hands. It has her arching a brow,"had some good times."

Wash almost laughs. He waggles his brows at her in a manner she assumes is suggestive, though the sentiment fails to translate. There's absolutely nothing in his demeanor to suggest there's ever been some form of romantic attachment between them. And for whatever reason, she gets the sense she's never once ever considered him in such a light. Their interaction is not changing this, "I was beginning to wonder. All I've heard since I…_woke up_ is doom and gloom."

"Yeah. Lucas isn't exactly the feel good type," her unladylike scoff (because that's the understatement of the century, isn't it? As they are both aware) softens his expression, tone dropping. It's no longer pleasantly teasing, simply soft, entirely too serious when juxtaposed with his earlier good humor, "But you've had good times too, Wash. People that loved you. Love you."

And when he says it, she doesn't for a second doubt him. It's strange.

A heavily sigh, "If you say so, Shannon."

"I'd rather _show_ you but for that we're going to have to get you out of here."

A brow arches in amused disbelief, "And how are you going to manage that?"

"I'm resourceful. Got myself in here to see you didn't I?"

"By being captured," she points out smugly and the man feigns hurt at her words, evidently pleased that her disposition hasn't changed any. They remain in pleasant silence a moment longer before her curiosity gets the better of her. Rubs her wrists in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture, "How's Nathaniel?"

"Oh, _him _you remember."

She shakes her head sadly, "No, Shannon. Just bits and pieces."

That seems to sober him up. He reaches over to give her knee a friendly pat, leans back immediately after, voice serious, "He's worried." At that he laughs, "The man's done nothing _but_ worry since we retook Terra Nova."

Just a nod in response.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Wash."

She wishes she knew how to respond. But she honestly doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know why he's so fiercely loyal to her, doesn't understand the level of intimacy he seems to display. She doesn't understand, but the words have left her before she can think better of them, spoken with absolute conviction, "I believe you."

It earns her that smile again, so wide, so damn warm that she can't help but return it, chuckle to herself, her dark hair tickling at her chest with each movement.

Wash can't help herself. Something about the man drives her to poke at him, prod at him, and so she leans over, smirking, "Though maybe we should focus on getting _you _out first."

"Such words, Lieutenant," the grin becomes an entirely too satisfied smirk, "Care to make it interesting?" At her hum of approval, he continues blithely on, "50 terra's I can make it out of here before you even get Taylor junior tucked in for bed." He extends his hand (as best he's able, considering the cuffs) to her, openly teasing.

She has no reason to trust him. He's given her very little reason to even follow him, to consent to this rescue. All she knows is that for the first time in more than two months her heart soars in her chest, entirely light, excited. It tells her, with an intensity that is almost frightening, that this is the correct course. The she must get out of here, that she must go with him. It's a feeling, nothing more.

Just a feeling. No facts, no promises, no assuring her there's a better life waiting for in Terra Nova. No happy endings, no true loves kiss, none of that feel good, saccharine crap. Just a smile and the warmth blossoming in her chest.

She accepts almost immediately, "You got yourself a deal, Shannon."

* * *

><p>For the rest of the day, she doesn't even concern herself over Shannon. He cheerfully insists he'll make it out of here without her assistance, before her, etc. It's almost cocky but there's something about it that comes off less as arrogant and more like friendly teasing. She simply shakes her head; when she asks him how they will possibly find each other he draws her a little mental map. Promises to meet her near a small ravine to the north of camp. And when she points out that his directions are marvelously unhelpful considering they're in the middle of the <em>desert<em>, he simply shrugs. He'd found her once before out here; this time, he says with no small measure of conviction, will be no different. She doesn't fight him on it, somehow believes him, knows he speaks the truth.

There's only the small matter of her own escape. And Lucas.

As they've established, she's more than capable of overpowering him. A part of her takes great satisfaction in the idea. It's dismissed almost immediately. Their tent is some distance from the rest of the encampment but one yell and every one of his guards would descend on them. There's waiting until his slips off but the bastard is an insufferably light sleeper and would undoubtedly rise if she attempted to extricate herself from his grasp.

In the end, her feet end up leading her to the med tent. For the most part she avoids it let the plague, unwilling and uneager to have the unpleasant memories of her more recent encounter with death dredged up. Biting her lip, she edges the flap aside, slips in.

If there is a single most important establishment in their encampment it's here. Their selection of meds isn't the widest but they remain undeniably important. A few portable bio-beds, surgical tools. Enough to keep them healthy for the duration of their sojourn in the badlands. As a rule, the place is never, _never_ left without guard, never left entirely empty. One of their field medics, a guard, someone is always present, keeping tabs of their supplies.

So when she enters and finds it mercifully vacant it's not relief she feels coursing through her veins but something else entirely. Suspicion, caution. A desire to remove herself from the location, get away. It's only her mind that forces her to calm. She finds the manifest easily enough, sorts through their supplies quickly and effectively, finds what she needs easily enough.

Five minutes and no one has come looking for her. Five minutes and no one's entered the tent.

Suspicion becomes near paranoia as she shuffles (as silently as humanly possible) through a small crate. Prepackaged injections of various antibiotics, a few painkillers, etc. There's a stim or two and near the bottom, precisely what she's looking for. Her fingers close around the glass delicately, the plastic surrounding it crinkling delicately. It's shoved deep one of her pant pockets; the meds are rearranged almost precisely how they had been prior, the lid of the crate slid back shut with a reassuring click.

A part of her sings, cheers, applauds, that's she's going to get away with this.

Then she turns. And there, like some horrific death knell, waits Mira, leaning easily, casually, against one of the bio beds. Her sidearm remains holstered, her expression more amused than anything else. It has Wash cautious as she eases back up, ready to leap into action. The other woman says nothing, simply extends her hand. When she receives no response, just an arched brow (she's been caught committing the crime but she'll be damned before she _admits_ to it), the Sixer simply sighs, taking a step forward.

She could likely down the woman, perhaps do it before she made a sound (though she doesn't like her odds) but curiosity stills her. Bids her wait patiently. Mira frowns, stands directly in front of her. When there is still no response, she bends slightly, hand sliding in the Lieutenants pocket. When she withdraws the syringe, Wash frowns.

"Somehow I don't think Lucas would want you having this." She chuckles, shakes her head, "Shannon put you up to this?"

"No," and here her tone becomes harsh, serious. It most certainly had not been Shannon.

Mira arches a brow, shrugs lightly. Glances towards the entrance. No one's come to investigate yet but she'd rather not push their luck. That the other woman has not immediately called for the guards is somehow not as reassuring as it might otherwise be. Her voice is surprisingly friendly, "You want out of here?" No reply. Just a pair of amber eyes settled unwaveringly on the syringe in her hand. The two women make eye contact momentarily. The Sixer seems to pause, mentally weighs her course of action. Reaches forward and tucks the packet safely back in Wash's pocket. "Then get out of here." She turns away, moves to exit.

It leaves Wash wide eyed. She should simply accept the proffered olive branch. But she's always been suspicious. Can't help it but ask, "Why?"

"Because what Lucas is doing is wrong," she shifts, as if the declaration makes her uncomfortable, "I don't like you, Lieutenant. But that doesn't mean I agree with him. And as far as I'm concerned…I never saw you here." She leaves the tent without another word, leaves a stunned Wash. In a moment, the soldier is following, marching with determination towards her tent, her spirits buoyed by the prospect of freedom.

* * *

><p>When night falls she's back in the tent, attempting to towel herself dry. Lucas enters behind her still dripping. Another one of his new "shared activities." She'd protest more vigorously but knows it will simply land her in more trouble. She'd rather have him with her than have her bathing privileges revoked, shallow and vapid as it seems. She can't even argue that it's an awful experience. The bastard seems to have an excellent grasp of when to push and when to relent. He's almost helpful in such moments, hands never straying anywhere she's openly uncomfortable with, remains mercifully silent through the whole of things.<p>

It's a ploy to further acclimate her to his presence and that frustrates her.

What irritates her more is that it's goddamn effective.

The moment they're alone he breezes past her, grabs his trousers and covers himself with a haste she finds nearly amusing. She's in no such rush. Why should she be? Her muscles protest the rapid movement and it's nothing he hasn't already seen, nothing he couldn't have taken any of the numerous times he'd left her drugged and helpless. She takes her time, massages her tired muscles. Makes certain every bit of moisture is caught in the rough fabric, runs hands through her damp hair. It falls in impossible waves down her back and she leaves it, unwilling to muster the energy to effectively tame it.

Tosses her towel aside and pauses as her companion clears his throat to call her attention. She throws a longing glance towards her fatigues, wishes more than anything she could simply get on with this. But his voice steals her from such a course of action.

"Come here, Lieutenant. I have a gift for you."

His voice is surprisingly soft, almost distressingly so, in the emptiness of his (their) tent. It's difficult to justify with the man she loathes, more akin to that other, entirely separate, creature that's so eager to offer her his assistance. He swings so readily between the two, leaves her careening dangerously along in his wake. It's enough to cause her turn.

He's sitting cross legged on the makeshift bed (an inelegant pile of blankets and sleeping rolls, awkward but certainly preferable to roughing it on the rocky terrain) a plex in his lap. His hair remains wet and mussed, towel still slung lazily across his shoulder as if he's entirely forgotten to tend to himself. In that respect, he favors his father. A single mindedness, entirely capable of running his life; those fey blue green eyes glittering as they sweep over the screen. An almost childish air plays about him then, an ease and a youth that should be long dead. She damns herself admitting it, but the sight softens her disposition immeasurably. When she crosses to him, kneels at his side, he frowns, eyes quickly taking her in. With one hand he reaches up to rearrange her hair, brushes it from behind her shoulders to hang loosely over her breasts, better concealing her nudity. The change has her eyes widening, though neither comment. She permits him guide her to rest between his legs, leans back against his chest.

In moments such as these, when he paints himself less as her tormentor and more as the boy she vaguely remembers, it's easy to justify the contact. Easy to feel that when she's inevitably snarling at him in the morning, when he's back to rending her memories and leaving bloody tears across the fabric of her psyche, her weakness will be easily excused as a simple desire to feel something, anything, vividly. No shades of gray, no hazy half remembrance. Simply existing, feeling… (and she hates herself, for the sentimentality and something else she cannot put a name to) alive.

Lucas holds the lighted screen for her in one hand, the other coming to rest on her hip. There's a scar there that he's become particularly fond of and long fingers brush idly across it, a soothing, languid pattern that has her (entirely unwillingly) relaxing against him. To her surprise, he doesn't speak, simply nods to the documents displayed, rests his chin atop her head. A strange position for them, too easy, too peaceful, too friendly.

Her name is displayed in simple font across the top of the page. Below that, and beside a picture of her, younger and adorned in her dress uniform, a list of battles she's served in, faraway places she no longer remembers, a list of CO's she served under. Military skills, honors she's achieved, medals, etc. It's the better part of her career, documented in this file. She frowns slightly when she reaches the segment detailing her various promotions.

She'd achieved the rank of Lieutenant fairly early on in her career. And then it simply stops. The honors continue, the medals continue, she's continually and unanimously lauded as the pinnacle of military precision and resolve, driven, devoted, loyal. She's recommended for promotion more times then she cares to count. But she'd never moved past Lieutenant. Promotion after promotion; she'd transferred to Taylor's unit and her life had simply…stagnated.

Almost as if she'd stopped living entirely. Stopped living for herself, most certainly.

Her transfer had been personally requested by Nathaniel Taylor. And she'd thrived under his tutelage, undoubtedly. If anything, her honors only increased under his service. Had only accelerated her climb. Hell, she might have overtaken him at one point. He had a reputation (even now she knows this), had left a trail of bodies in his wake that made him…dangerous. He's been Commander Taylor longer than most people remember. But she'd never had to suffer from such a thing. There's only promotion after promotion.

And she never once takes them. Not after she's reached Lieutenant. Not when it seems she might overtake her mentor.

Not when it requires her to leave his service.

She screws her eyes shut against the memory, forgets Shannon, forgets the escape, forgets the syringe waiting for her on the bed. There's only the countless ceremonies, how he'd pinned medals on her jacket, how he'd beamed at her. How every damn one of them had been so bitter sweet. How every single time she lived in terror that they'd take her from him, take the one part of him she could rely on. Shallow and horrible and childish, but as long as she served beneath him she could protect him. And as long as she was his soldier he was obligated to protect her. He never tells her to take the promotions and she never does. It's selfish on both their parts.

And, at the moment, with her memories still hazy and no clear image of the man in question to soften her opinion of him, with poison flowing through her veins, she hates both of them for it. Herself for being so goddamned idiotic, him for being so miserably self centered. For putting himself before her again.

Wash settles her hand lightly over Lucas', leads it down till the plex is resting against the blankets, takes a deep breath. He shares more with her tonight then he's ever been willing to before, offered an entire chapter of her life rather than a fragmented half telling, twisted with his own commentary. Somehow this hurts infinitely worse; somehow, she's positive he knows this. Leans her head against his shoulder, sighs; her voice sad, only one word managing to find its way from her tongue, "Why?"

"Because you couldn't bring yourself to leave him," he mutters, and he permits her to turn in his arms. Hurt amber eyes meet openly curious blue green ones, too close to his father's for her comfort. Something so gentle in his touch, leading her, goading her towards his ultimate point, smears her hurt across her singing nerves like paint across a canvas. "You held onto hope then, Alicia. For more than ten years, you've held onto hope." His fingers move upwards, traces a scar over her ribs, another below her breast. Her minds rails that it's an invasion, that he has no right to touch her, that she needs to move, has to move, if she's to remain sane.

But he's warm. And at the moment he's gentle, fingers massaging her aching muscles (muscles he's responsible for damaging, her mind snarls; the protest is shoved brusquely aside, kept for when she needs to deny her feelings in this moment), and his touch penetrates the dull ache in her skull. He lets the plex fall, moves his free hand to rest over the design emblazoned low on her back, the physical representation of her ties to him.

_Move, move, move, run, fight_….

The Lieutenant does none of those things, her rebellion momentarily forgotten. She brings her hand up, traces the rise of his cheek. Simultaneously young and aged beyond belief, those eyes decades older than they have any right being. They are the both of them his father's creations, both hopelessly torn by death, those he's seen and those she's caused. He's a kindred soul in the most wretched, loathsome sort of way. Her nails graze lightly across his facial hair (it's always rather scruffy looking but she knows, after spending so long with him, that he takes great pains to maintain it; she almost laughs at the vanity), still damp from their bath; he leans into the touch, presses lips to the tips of her fingers.

Too gentle; this feels like neither of them. For the moment, she's content being something other than herself. As a rule, over these last two months, he's been entirely too willing to touch her. Now he remains remarkably placid beneath her, allows her to trail a lazy pattern through his hair. She takes a long breath, leans her forehead against his, closes her eyes simply because she'll despise herself if she looks in his (all she see's is Nathaniel, her betrayal, everything, and it eats at her).

She feels him watching her, touches her as if she's something fascinating and foreign, mercurial and unknowable, "Do you still hope, Lieutenant?" His voice far away, something dancing there that she cannot identify.

Something cries out in her chest, icy fingers clutching about her heart. Something comes dangerously near dying, wants her to hurt him again.

But the words never come.

"No, Lucas," she mutters, opens her eyes. Pride, sick and twisted though it is, shines there in his expression, mingled seamlessly with a victory. Over her undoubtedly, "No, I don't." The confession burns.

His hands snap immediately up to clasp her face, the grasp tight enough to cause her slight discomfort. The smile he favors her with is hideous, twists his handsome features into a gloating mask, victorious, conquering. Brushes a strand of hair away from her face, the back of his hand ghosting affectionately against the angry purple bruise on her forehead. Simply stares, with that smile she so despises, fingers digging, an intriguing counterpoint to focus on as he leans forwards, brushes his lips only lightly across hers. A ghost of a sensation that stirs something within her. A memory, perhaps, foggy though it is.

"Did my father ever tell you how beautiful you are, my Lieutenant?" It is ultimately his undoing, as it's always been. She does not miss either the possessive quality of his tone or the note of ownership before her title and the mention of Nathaniel sends a spike of guilt through her, reminds her of her original intentions. The mention of Nathaniel somehow sobers her enough, offers a small measure immunity to his honeyed words and her own doubts. Escape. She needs to escape. And at the moment, the direction of their encounter seems perfectly capable of facilitating that.

It has her growling, deepening the kiss, bites at his lips to assert her freedom over him. Momentarily allows herself to submit to this debasement, momentarily revels in the contact of flesh on flesh. She gives a inelegant push on his shoulder, forces him down beneath her. A desire to purge herself of her guilt, forcibly evict it from her thoughts. She clutches his face, nipping and biting at his lips, punishes him for everything he's done to her. For the memories he's twisted and broken, for ruining and tainting the love she once clung to, that once kept her warm at night, for hurting her, breaking her, for not being his goddamn father.

Still pliable beneath her, hands coming to rest at her waist, almost as if he hadn't counted on this shift in her behavior. A hopeless insufferable bastard he might be but he's still young. Has spent years in the wilderness and the years before that sheltered and focused on his work. It has her grinning, pushing further forward, holding him more tightly to her. Never once does he reach up to touch her, to brush a hand across her breasts, never once does he reach down to grab her ass. He's perfectly civil, almost gentle in contrast to her aggression. It's infuriating (and she doesn't doubt, even for a second, that it's intentional). He's placid until she calms her pace, slows, trails her tongue lazily across his teeth. When she does, his hand slides further up her back, one tangling in her hair.

She shifts back to aggressive and he stills, smirking against her lips.

Gentle and he's willing to play again.

Willing to let her lead only as long as she plays by his rules.

She pulls back to scowl down at him; finds him unrepentant. His hands grasp her about the ribs, holds her flush to him as he rolls, reverses their positions. Submission, one way or another, and she despises it. This time when he kisses her it's enough to bruise, his teeth clicking against her, sucking hard enough to leave a purple discoloration around the surrounding flesh. The force has her existing injuries screaming, her body suddenly alive with varied pains; and hell if she doesn't revel in it. There's no guilt, no half truths, no memories, just _this_.

Her hands stray to the clasp of his pants, make quick work of it, as if terrified her mind might catch on before they finish their task. Lucas reaches down to still her immediately, makes a low _tsking_ sound, nearly amused, nearly disapproving. Chides her, as if she's some disobedient animal, something subject to his whims. It's enough to recall her addled senses and she nearly growls at him. Remembers precisely why she's allowed him to initiate this.

The young man slides down her, pauses to press and open mouthed kiss between her breasts, stills when he reaches her belly. Grins up and her and rests his head there. Closes his eyes and simply remains where he is, twines the fingers of their left hands together.

When she attempts to shift, to goad him into action, his right hand digs warningly at a particularly vivid bruise. It's enough to illicit a growl, frustrated, to which he simply chuckles.

"So impatient, Lieutenant," and it's difficult to even remain properly indignant with his breath tickling across her skin. "You're going to sleep now."

"Am I?" Somehow she isn't surprised. The hand on her wrist becomes gentler, leads it above his head to splay their fingers across her chest. He permits her extricate her fingers, stroke lazy patterns through his hair. Reaches above her head and finds her trousers, fingers questing within the pockets.

He sounds halfway amused, though she doesn't miss the steel in his tone, leaving no room for argument. "Yes, you're very tired."

"I sound weak," distracted as she finds what she's looking for. The fingers on her wrist tighten warningly. She considers letting him simply fall asleep. Too simple. A wicked smirk twists her lips as she finishes her task.

A kiss to her abdomen. A shunt of her hips, a slide and a roll and she's back to straddling him. For a moment, he looks openly furious with her outright disobedience. She revels in it. Holds their entwined left hands above their heads, presses an open mouthed kiss to his jaw. Works her way towards his lips, alternately sucking and biting. The rhythmic pattern has him relaxing beneath her, a hand reaching up to tangle in her hair again. Leans back, drags him into a half sitting position with her.

There's something oddly gratifying about the way his eyes widen when she jabs him with the syringe. How for a brief moment every muscle in his body tenses as if he intends to fight her and then everything simply…stops. Loosens, goes slack, against her. She supports him for a moment, pulls his lower lip between her teeth briefly before lowering him down on their bed. Those blue green eyes simply stare at her and she smiles, smirks, and knows the sentiment behind it can be nothing short of wicked, her hair tickling his chest as she leans close enough to touch her nose to his cheek. Speaks against his ear as he's done to her so many times before.

Voice strong, steeled, confident and not in the least penitent for her actions, as she pats his cheek in mock affection, "I'll be sure to tell Nathaniel you said hello."

Naked hated flares to life in his eyes.

She can't bring herself to feel even slightly remorseful as she dresses, strides from the tent into the night.

* * *

><p>No one stops her as she leaves camp, no one even sees her. It's suspicious, has her on edge, but she doesn't stop to question her good fortune. It will undoubtedly be pondered, the scenario run over and over in her mind as she rests in the Rover. At the moment, she has simply to stay moving. The moment she's clear of light she kicks into a run, quick enough to put needed distance between her, slow enough to remain comfortable. Begins scanning the terrain for Shannon.<p>

As if summoned, the man emerges from a shallow ravine (hmm, his directions had been good), a smile turning his features, arms out wide, a brow quirked in victory. It has her eyes widening, momentary shock overriding her stoicism. How….

He winks at her, see's her thoughts playing across her features, "When we get to the Rover, Wash, I promise." He kicks into an easy jog beside her, clicks on his comm. unit. "Reilly, you reading?"

"Yes, sir. Good to hear you."

He glances over at her briefly as if attempting to gauge whether or not she recognizes the voice. She shakes her head, no. A squeeze to her shoulder, helpful, hopeful, "You reading our signal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, rendezvous with us as soon as you can. Don't think Wash and I can leg it all the way back to the colony."

There's a long pause on the other side, something that sounds like a sharp intake of breath. Whoever's on the other end doesn't ever both saying a goodbye. There's just the sound of the Rover roaring to life, tearing over the desert terrain. It has both Shannon and Wash chucking as they move. Admittedly, neither of them is at the peak of their game. The moon is shining above them, bright enough to illuminate any potential pitfalls but it's hardly enough to save them from even bit of uneven ground.

It doesn't even matter. Even as she nearly trips (she recovers before Jim's even realizes what happened), even as her lungs burn painfully in her chest, she feels lighter than she has over the past two months. In all likelihood, she's simply exchanged one master for another (servitude to one Taylor for the other) but at the moment there's only the rush of the wind through her hair and the feeling of absolute freedom. The muscles in her legs begin to tire, her breath comes in ragged gasps but she's full of something so giddy and childish and young she can't suppress the smile turning her lips.

It takes Reilly a little over an hour to find them. The vehicle comes to a smooth stop a ways in front of them. The young woman swings out of the driver's seat easily enough. The second figure takes significantly more time, struggles with his hastily bound shoulder (and a pang of guilt courses through her at that).

Dirty and disheveled, Mark Reynolds eyes settle unwaveringly upon her. He says nothing, simply stares.

The corporal is on her first, smiling though the emotion is remarkably subdued. It's something Wash can respect, having never been one for overt displays. The younger woman extends her hand. It's accepted and shook almost immediately, "Welcome back, ma'am."

"Thank you…Reilly," the pause is not missed; she shoots Shannon a curious glance.

The other man holds up a hand, "Wash is suffering some…memory loss." And he says it so simply, as if it's nothing much, just another obstacle they can overcome. Considering the alternative (her death) she supposes it's comparatively simple. Unpleasant, yes, but much easier to recover from.

"How much memory loss?" It's Reynolds, voice soft as he comes towards them. The kid watches her carefully, green eyes openly hurt, focused solely on her as if she's some strange otherworldly manifestation. A ghost, torn from the fabric of his memory, given life solely to tear him anew. Shannon's words have his expression swinging instantly from hopeful to mournful, his course towards her faltering. His brow furrows, his gaze never meeting hers as he extends a hand to her hesitantly, rests it lightly on her elbow. The touch assures him she's more than a mirage, though the knowledge does little to stem the hurt of being so easily forgotten. He gives a light squeeze, so openly affectionate, so hopeful; it's a nearly foreign sensation when compared to what she's come to know these last two months, has her staring in near confusion at the gesture.

He purses his lips, winces before he manages to express the words, "Wash do you….can you…." Hope still flirting with his tone, still clinging desperately to his spirit, but he can't bring himself to finish the phrase. Just watches her carefully, beseeches her to find something, anything. To have not forgotten him.

The warmth that fills her is impossible in its intensity. She almost reaches a hand up to touch his face, stills halfway through, brings the hand to rest on his shoulder instead. Tilts her head lightly to the side and forces him to meet her eyes. The words that leave her are so miserably soft that she wonders if the voice is even her own, "I remember you, Mark. I remember."

Reynolds stares at her for a long moment, a restrained smile turning up his lips before she chuckles, unable to restrain her relief, reaches up to cup his neck, brings his forehead down to rest against her own. The sound has him pulling her into a tight embrace, arms clutching around her as if he's terrified she'll simply vanish on him again. She gives him a reassuring squeeze, clutches her self-proclaimed brother with enough force to pain her still recovering ribs. Doesn't care that it hurts at least a little; doesn't care that it agitates his hastily stitched shoulder, doesn't care. The kid lets out a muffled sound of relief, buries his face in the darkness of her tresses.

She respects him enough to ignore the sensation of his tears in her hair, the slight cracking in his tone as he speaks against the top of her head, "Welcome back, Alicia." It's repeated in a desperate litany against her, and she cannot help her smile, tightens her hold on him.

Shannon watches them with an amused expression, obviously both warmed and pleased by the display. He meets her gaze and holds it, openly conveys just how damn grateful he is to have her back. He plucks something from his pocket, flicks his comm. unit on. "Command? This is Shannon. Tell the Commander we're coming home," the sheriff winks at her, "All of us."

* * *

><p>Mira finds him lying across his sleeping rolls, arms behind his head. He looks for all the word relaxed, all easy grace and self satisfaction. He throws her a lazy smile as she enters. It becomes almost grateful when she plucks his wrist up, delicately injects him with a milky sort of liquid. Smooths over the small prick in the skin with her thumb. It aligns almost perfectly with the one on his opposite wrist.<p>

It's not enough to entirely counter the paralytic but it dilutes it enough that movement is essentially possible. With the second dose of the treatment running through his veins he's able to wrestle himself into a sitting position runs a hand across the back of his neck. There's a bit of discoloration there, where the good Lieutenant had injected him a bit more vigorously then strictly required. The thought has him chuckling. The hate in her eyes had been positively intoxicating. He's almost sorry to see her go.

Mira seems to follow his train of thought, "They won't have made it far, if you've changed your mind."

He simply chuckles, "No, no. My father wants his toy back and won't stop till he has her. For once I'm willing to oblige him." Although the notion of her running through the desert with that Shannon fool is almost worth it regardless. But he imagines his father's expression, imagines his joy at having his prodigal soldier returned, alive, so very alive. Imagines how hollow the sentiment will ring, how quickly it will come crashing down on the old man as he sees his woman as she is rather than as she was. Will see her nobility tainted and shredded, her unflappable faith in the messiah of Terra Nova shaken, perhaps irreparably damaged.

"That doesn't sound like you."

"It doesn't, does it?" Imagines the expression of disgust on his face when he discovers his ever so pure, ever so loyal, Lieutenant's treacherous behavior when her guilt inevitably leads her to confess her eagerness to bed his bastard, traitorous, son. Perhaps it will kill him. If not physically then emotionally. Such a betrayal, the ultimate one; how can one recover from such a thing? He's fascinated by the prospect. "But she'll buy us time. As long as they are…" he frowns, almost gags on the word, "_Fixing_ her, they won't concern themselves with us." Fix her, as if she's become something hateful, not the beautiful void he's painstakingly crafted.

Father never had appreciated his artistic expressions. Lucas doubts he'll like his most recent masterpiece.

He smiles, the expression a mockery of pleasant emotions, something uniquely him, "Have your people done as I asked?"

The beautiful Sixer tosses her head as if amused that he even has to inquire. Hands him a plex. He glances over it briefly. Whatever is written there pleases him greatly. He breezes past Mira wordlessly, lets out a small cry of triumph, fists hands in his hair. The woman simply watches him, takes in the fascinating sight.

The Lieutenant will buy him time. And for that he is infinitely grateful.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I'll admit. Wash's line was originally, "I remember you, Mark. I remember." (description/hugging) "And I'm sorry for shooting you." But evidently that kills the mood. :D

AND SWEET LORDY! 33K in and Wash is finally getting back to Terra Nova. CAN YOU SAY TAYLOR TIMES NEXT CHAPTER!

AND SWEET LORDY 2! YOU ALL SURVIVED THE MHR (mutual hate romance xD)! GIVE YOURSELVES A PAT ON THE BACK! And…don't hunt me down and try and stab me. Then you won't get the bamf half of the story.


	6. Chapter 6: Ethereal

**A/N:** Writers block's a pain but it's been effectively smote. Evidently it takes some time for a person to transition from, "HAH! Let's screw with Wash head THIS way this chapter," to, "Oh, honey, everything's going to be alright."

And now the chapter, with transitional fun. And Taylor! I've missed Taylor. Let's see how he's been doing….

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Ethereal<br>**

* * *

><p>It takes one moment, only one, for Taylor to lose her. And in that moment, as cliché, as pointlessly, hopelessly, shamefully, weak as it is, his heart breaks. He feels a part of himself (the one she's painstakingly stitched together over the years, the Taylor <em>she's<em> created from the ashes of his previous life, the only version of himself left worth saving) withers and die, join her there on the ground before the gate. The pain is intense, near physical and leaves him gasping for breath momentarily. A bullet to his heart, the turn of an edged blade in his back, ripping and tearing at what remains of his already shredded control. Everything, _everything_, within him demands that he close the distance between them, rush the gate. He can't leave her there. Not like that, not like this.

Wash doesn't deserve it. After all she's done for him, he can't simply leave her there, broken and so very dissimilar to how she'd been in life (a mockery of her strength, a mockery of her defiance, of her everything). He watches her crumple (and when he closes his eyes, it's on loop, over and over), body going slack. There's only one thought, (on repeat, on loop, mind skipping a beat, whatever track she'd set him on) and that's to get to her, get to her, get her out of there, away from there.

There are few things capable of breaking his lauded control, stripping him of something so deeply ingrained in his being. This is one of them. His son is not foolish and strikes at the one area, the one weakness, in his father's otherwise impenetrable defense. Attempts to goad him out of hiding, smirks at the tree line, openly mocks the man he knows waits, unable to act. Able to see, but not move, not without risking so many more lives.

And in the end, father and son are aware of the same thing. It will end as it did so many years before. He will never put himself (or the woman he loves) before the supposed greater good. He will allow the one he holds most dear to stand as a sacrifice, a martyr, for his cause, accepts the blow meant for him. History repeats himself and whatever other cliché, and Lucas makes certain it plays out on an identical stage, gives him a front row seat.

A part of him yells it's a second chance, a way to makes amends for his original failure. He hadn't been able to save Ayani. Perhaps he can save Wash. Perhaps she doesn't need to die, perhaps he'll move fast enough this time, won't need to watch her die. Terra Nova is a world, a second chance. But he cannot take this one. Knows his son wants nothing more than to enrage him, draw him out.

In the grand scheme of things, he's successful. Taylor's grabbing his rifle, moving. Shannon's hand on his shoulder, his voice uncharacteristically serious, unwavering, is perhaps the only thing that prevents him from claiming victory. Jim's just lost one of his dearest friends; the man's not going to lose his Commander as well. And before he can even think better of it, mount an effective protest, rebel, fight (for her and himself), Taylor's being led away. Wash is left where she lies, beautiful face turned downwards, hidden beneath a curtain of midnight dark hair. Broken, such a contrast to her strength in life. His heart screams in his chest, something very real dying within him as he voluntarily abandons her, bleeds with her, dies with her.

Fate has it that he's abandoning her again a second time less than a month later, leaving her to die again.

And then the image restarts, loops and resets, runs along the familiar track. Suddenly he's back in the forest, the binoculars at his eyes as Lucas levels his gun. A bang and Wash falls. Restarts again, Wash falls. Over and over. Slight changes in an impossible scenario; leaves him impotent.

Wash dies again.

And again.

And again.

An impossible hellish limbo he has no way of escaping. Watches, helpless. Wants to, at least one time, rush to her side but is inevitably drawn away.

Wash dies again.

And again.

_Again._

Just as he feels he might go mad (and perhaps he has already fallen from this precipice, is simply unaware of his demise) Taylor awakens, clutches a hand to his chest, closes his eyes against the impossible pain. It takes a long moment his surroundings to come rushing back to him (his bedroom, not the forest, empty and completely devoid of any traces of Wash), sheets pooling about him, drenched in sweat. Strange, how awakening from sleep leaves him so exhausted. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, run a hand through his hair. Exhausting. Sleep, he knows, will not return to him this night. Experience leaves him certain of this. Bare feet make barely a sound as he pads across the floor to the kitchen, finds the bottle of scotch on his counter. It's late (or early) and easily justifiable.

Massages his temple, tries to clear the images from behind his eyes. Wash, broken and bleeding in front of the gate; Wash, dead but not truly. Wash, the woman whose loyalty he'd never questioned, who'd followed into him into a hundred different hells, who he'd left to die not once but twice.

He wants, more than anything else, to make amends. Prays to whatever deity, whatever higher power that gives enough of a damn to hear him, that he is given a second chance to do so. Nurses his drink, the dull burn surprisingly comforting in the cool morning air. Closes his eyes and sees her face. And if he focuses, hears her voice, clear and strong and beautifully defiant as she meets her end.

Somewhere in his home his comm. unit buzzes. Half of him is determined to ignore it. It's far too early; Shannon isn't scheduled to check in until much later and Guzman is capable of handling anything else. For whatever reason, he finds his feet moving of their own accord. He's answering before he's aware of it.

"Taylor."

His security chief's voice is surprisingly excited, out of character for the composed man. "Commander, Shannon just reported in." There's a moment, a brief, intolerable moment, where it becomes impossible for him to take in air. His chest constricts, his lungs spasm, time lulls in such a way that it briefly pauses and then accelerates in a rush, desperate to make up the momentary lapse. Finds himself holding his breath as the younger man offers his report, "They're heading back to the colony, sir."

"And Wash…?" Intolerably hopeful, almost as if he exhales her name (he's kept it in too long, hasn't said it often enough and now it's eager to escape him, remind him).

"Alive, Commander; Shannon's got her."

His legs almost give out, leans heavily against the arm of the sofa, eyes closing. Relief, and something else entirely, floods his consciousness. Idly, he's aware that Guzman is still speaking, attempting to fill him in on the logistics, their arrival time. It's nothing more than a blur, background noise. Whatever he's attempting to say falls on deaf ears. There's only one thought and one alone that runs through the man's head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Home. She's coming home.

Wash is coming home.

* * *

><p>Shannon's prediction says they will be within the gate a little after noon.<p>

If sleep had been a distant prospect before the notion of it is impossible now. It's a little before dawn but Taylor finds himself dressing quickly, rushing to the Command center. It really is too soon to allow himself to feel truly relieved but the sensation, the veritable weight lifted of his chest, is something impossible to shake. In all honesty, he finds he has no desire to hide his good cheer. The stray civilian out wandering at such ungodly hours throws him a perplexed (but warm, hopeful) look. The soldier's whisper among themselves, but refrain from commenting. Paperwork is started (some finished, most shoved aside, a thing to complete on a less momentous date). In the end, staying still is impossible. He finds a smile twisting his lips (against his better judgment and reserve), paces across the length of his office.

His attention never leaves the gate, waits and watches for them to return, to come home. The soldiers are little better. The news of the Lieutenants imminent homecoming travels quickly throughout the colony and is abruptly everywhere, despite the limited channels it might have come from. It's almost amusing to watch everyone suddenly milling about, hasty preparations being made, all independent of one another and yet somehow all running perfectly in sync. Some bring flowers, some bring gifts. Some simply wait, eager to welcome the woman back. It's oddly touching, seeing the joy on their faces, how they go out of their way to make an effort. He never once issues an order; they seem perfectly able to go about the task on their own. In short order the pavilion is transformed into something festive, lovely, warm. Strangely disconcerting considering she had met her end in precisely that location. Morbid, if one considered it too long.

Elizabeth Shannon arrives to wait with him a little after eleven, offers him a comforting smile, a hand set lightly on his arm. No words. In striking contrast to her husband the woman seems to understand that such expressions will only aggravate the emotions pooling in his gut. She sympathizes, he knows. Understands what it's like to wait, uncertain, for the fate of an individual so integral to the foundation of one's life. He can't say he enjoys the sensation. A brief pang of guilt, memories tugging at him lightly.

How many times had Wash stood here, plagued with this same feeling? The number is greater than he can count. He isn't proud he made her endure it so often. And it _is_ a form of endurance.

A cloud of dust on the horizon if the first sign of their approach; one of their spotters lets out a holler, confirms it's them and, it seems, everyone is suddenly cheering. They're still cheering when the gate's been raised, still cheering when the Rover comes to a stop.

For a moment, his heart seems to stop beating.

Shannon emerges from the Rover first, dashes around to the other side with almost comical haste. Wash opens her door under her own power, smiling and alive, prepares to step out only to see the Sheriff's hand extended to her with a grand flourish. She arches a brow, rolls her eyes at the Sheriff as if this is nothing out of the ordinary, bats it idly aside. She mutters something that has the other man laughing, mock irritation coloring her tone. A good sign that _his_ Wash is still alive and well.

The sight brings a small smile to Taylor's face as he watches the woman shrugs off their assistance. Despite her protests both men continue to flank her (Shannon and Reynolds, hovering as if they can prevent any further harm from befalling her through little more than their presence), unwilling to stray terribly far from her side. The protective behavior is something almost entirely foreign to the woman, almost insulting, but undeniably endearing. She simply shakes her dark head, dips her chin to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

The Sheriff leans in close to her, a smirk on his face, tosses a glance towards the Commander. She follows his gaze immediately, fixes on him. His breath leaves him again, a swell of warmth. She's alive. It settles in with a near physical weight, comforting and entirely at odds with the reservation eating away at him. She tilts her head, says something Shannon, gaze never leaving her commanding officer. There's something different in her eyes that he cannot place. At odds with the woman he remembers. It's a very small thing, infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things but enough to set him on edge. As if she's searching for something and finds it lacking. Finds _him _lacking. It's paranoia, undoubtedly, brought on by her absence. He inclines his head, questions her silently.

She observes the motion, knows she's been caught. Something in her posture stiffens, guards snapping back into place, things he's never seen turned against him. It's concerning, but he cannot bring himself to care in the moment. She's back and nothing matters but that.

Taylor descends the steps of Command, gaze never leaving her, afraid she'll be nothing more than a dream or hallucination if he does so. That she'll disappear on him as she has done so often over these last two months, leave him hurting and wanting. Almost cannot justify her presence. But Shannon places a hand lightly on her elbow and her figure does not wane or dissipate. And if he is mad enough to have imagined such a corporeal image it is an insanity he can bear. The steps end, his feet meet the stone of the pavilion. Lessens the distance between them to no more than few feet.

Strange, how such a small amount of space can somehow suddenly feel like a gaping chasm, an insurmountable distance.

He would be a liar, a hopeless, undeniable, impossible liar if he denied having dreamt of this moment. His waking moments have been filled with nothing but ghosts of her, his sleep with her face. There are dreams, her marching back through the gates, her dark head held high, that trademark smirk grazing her features. Bruised but not broken, never broken (and now they are almost applicable, a dream walking into reality, and he can't even say it's the first time he's applied the term to her). Sometimes she'll simply stare at him, cock her head lightly to the side and watch him from beneath playfully lowered lashes as if she's inwardly laughing.

Even in his dreams she stands apart from him.

If she were anyone else, she'd run to him. She'd throw her arms about his neck, cover his face with kisses, pledge her undying devotion, swear never to leave his side again (though she'd never wanted that to begin with, had she? That had been his choice, his failure). If he were anyone else, he'd laugh, swing her around in an embrace like it's an old movie (happy endings, happily ever after, things he's too old to believe in, too jaded to hope for), whisper endearments against her hair, tell her he'd thought of nothing but saving her, delivering her, seeing her(that he'd hadn't left her). If they were anyone else, the distance between them would have been closed immediately, the chasm crossed.

But they aren't anyone else. They are Lieutenant Alicia Washington and Commander Nathaniel Taylor and they do not have the luxury of such expressions, even in dreams.

And so there is little hope for them in reality and the chasm must remain, at least momentarily.

He's well aware that the entirety of the assemblies gaze is focused solely on them, judging each of their reactions, trying to make something of nothing. Somehow, they are still hoping for that illusive happy ending as well. Praying that their lieutenant will return to them, laugh, that their Commander will welcome her with an embrace, fervent whispers they can barely pick out on the silent air. Somehow, they still hope that despite the ground they've lost, that he'll hold her, kiss her.

It's never been their relationship and it's most certainly not their relationship now (now there is a strange state of limbo, something in her eyes that wasn't there before).

They come to a stop in front of each other. Wash settles into her trademark stance, snaps off a quick salute, the gesture impressive, striking with her hair loose, skin bruised and discolored. Militaristic with Reynolds and Shannon standing stony faced at her sides. Taylor returns the motion, a smile turning his face, "At ease, Lieutenant." She relaxes only infinitesimally, folds her hands at the small of her back. More like the recruit from a distant time (a memory) than his seasoned second.

"Lieutenant Alicia Washington," watches as she takes solace in her title, lips quirking up in a smile despite the tension in her shoulders, "reporting for duty, sir."

In the end, he doesn't kiss her, doesn't hold her, doesn't anything really. Simply nods, eyes twinkling with something undeniably fond, "It's about damn time, woman." Her eyes widen, the familiar expression far too pleasant. He extends his hand to her. And while there is a moment's hesitation (that had never been present before), she accepts it, gives a reassuring squeeze. It's a visible sign to the colony that their Lieutenant has officially returned to them, a victorious conqueror, some heroic figure of myth rather than the martyr she had been in death, and they begin to crowd in on her, each eager to offer their thanks, praise. He isn't sure if she even hears him over the bustle but he makes the effort anyway, his tone uncharacteristically soft, "Welcome home, Wash."

For the briefest moment, he thinks he sees something of the woman he's spent no small portion of his life beside. For a moment, he imagines she heard him. And then the crowd sweeps her away. He permits it, gives her a nod and retreats to the Command Center (and it is a retreat, isn't it?). Watches as Shannon and Reynolds attempt to control the mob pushing in on her, escort her through the chaos towards the Medical Compound.

For the briefest of moments, he imagines that she throws a glance towards him in the middle of it all. Imagines that their gaze meets, blue eyes expressing gratitude to curious amber ones. In the end, it's simply in his head. He's aware of this. Takes comfort in it regardless.

Out of respect for her, he waits a little over an hour before heading for the Medical Compound. Her tags, a comforting weight about his neck for the better part of these last few months, are clutched in his hand. A promise he needs to fulfill. The guards he's posted at the entrance to the clinic nod, permit him to pass. Return to keeping the woman's admirers at bay until she's more settled in. A brief consultation with a nurse gives him the information he needs. She's being held near the back of the place, her exams concluded.

"Commander," the sound of Doc's Shannon voice stills his beeline for the Lieutenant's bio bed. The smaller woman hands a chart over to the nearest intern, crosses to him slowly. It's out of character for the composed doctor (her arms crossed over her abdomen, head tipped down slightly) and has him instantly cautious, mind rapidly leaping to every possible conclusion, potential injuries his second might haves sustained. Fatalistic, perhaps, but it's kept him going thus far. "Very good, I was hoping to catch you. Do you have a moment?"

Her tone is conversational but leaves no room for argument. He nods.

"Course, Doc," he follows her aside a ways. It leaves them with a view of the Lieutenant's room, a thing he's positive Elizabeth has done intentionally to better assuage his worries. Smart woman; he favors her with a small appreciative nod. It's returned with a knowing smile.

Jim is in the room with Wash, settled on the edge of the bio bed. For all intents and purposes, she looks fine. A little ruffled, a little bruised, but fine. There's an unwilling smile toying about her expression, mirth dancing in her eyes as Shannon crosses off something on a pad he's managed to commandeer from an unfortunate intern (a survey, the sheriff had said, meant to check her memories. A cursory glance reveals it's nothing more than a blank screen). Better reassured of her well being, he turns his attention back to the Doctor, crosses arms over his chest, lowers his voice, "How's she holding up?"

Something about the phrase seems to amuse the woman though it never openly registers on her face. Instead she looks vaguely nervous, a little sad, "Physically the Lieutenant is perfectly well. She's sustained a few scrapes and bruises but it's nothing she hasn't dealt with before. I dare say with some effort she'll be back to her former self before the end of the month."

"Sounds like good news to me," and it is, like a veritable weight being lifted off his chest. She's alright. Nothing had happened to her, nothing's permanent. She's alright.

The universe has never stayed on Nathaniel Taylor's side for longer than a few moments. It's mercurial in its affections, switches them now.

"Sir," Elizabeth's voice is soothing, placating (and he's absently aware that he's heard her use it before. On panicked family members, fretting over patients, husbands terrified of losing their spouse), a delicate hand resting on his forearm. He stares at it, confused, arches a brow. "_Physically_, the Lieutenant is recovering. To think she could escape the sonic pulse unharmed, however, was….a fantasy."

"You got a point, Doc? If it's all the same to you, I'd like to see my Lieutenant as soon as possible."

"That's simply it, Commander. _Your_ Lieutenant, the Alicia Washington you knew, could very well remain dead." To her credit, the woman does not flinch under the force of his gaze, blue eyes boring into her, demanding an explanation for her words. Her jaw sets, "Alicia is suffering a rather severe case of amnesia. From what we can gather she has very little recollection of her life, _any_ of her life. That includes _you_, Commander."

It shouldn't sting as much as it does. Shouldn't affect him in such a manner. She's simply his Lieutenant (simply; nothing about the woman is "simple" and he rails against the words usage in conjunction with her), another subordinate, another soldier, another casualty. It shouldn't sting.

She's been dead for almost three months. And it's strange, that with her now only feet from him, she should feel infinitely more distant. His voice is soft, quiet in the din of the medical center, "Will she recover?"

"Yes."

The one word draws his attention, snaps it back to the Doctor. She holds up a cautionary hand at the hope springing to life in his eyes, "It's entirely possible she may recover. She's showing signs of it, has some recollection. But, sir, bear in mind, the woman's been in a hostile environment. Jim has told me, and Wash herself validated, that the majority of her time was spent in the company of your son." And that brings with it a sting as well. He hides it well but the woman knows, "Please know, I am not asking you to give up on her. Alicia is a strong woman. Simply…give her time."

Give her time. Infinitely simpler than finding a way to bring her back from the dead; he finds himself nodding and the woman gives his arm a squeeze before removing her hand, tossing a nod towards the other room, "Now go introduce yourself. I dare say she'll be grateful for the rescue from my husband." She shakes her head in fond amusement as her spouse says something that has the Lieutenants face turning in a scowl.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Wash. It'll be fun."<p>

Against her better judgment (as it only encourages him), Wash finds herself chuckling, arching a brow at the man currently sitting on the edge of her bio bed. Officially, she's been cleared (clean bill of health, though she could have said as much without having checked into the damn clinic), kept only for a brief period of observation. And, evidently, for Shannon's amusement. The man hasn't left her side since finding her (and, oddly, she cannot say she minds it. He's a comforting presence, one her mind welcomes almost instinctively), intent on, as he so glibly puts it, "extracting every one of her deepest, darkest secrets."

She's fairly certain, if she even had them, that they are not something she would willingly or easily divulge. She's fairly certain he's aware of this as well and somehow the ploy is only more endearing for it.

His most recent approach is a survey, designed to stimulate her memory. It's a glorious failure, and not simply because she cannot provide conclusion answers. The man cheerfully insists the questions are standard issue. When she asks him to repeat a previous one, he cannot, flashes her a smirk, shrugs, unashamed that he's been found out. The game is simply his newest iteration of a familiar tactic. She admires, if nothing else, his tenacity, her determination to see her remember her previous life (remember him, perhaps, and she feels guilt at that.).

"A game, Shannon? What are you five?" Tone sharp, but fond.

"C'mon, what can it hurt?"

"My pride; I still have that."

Shannon shrugs, makes an idle motion with his hand, "Fine. It'd help but it's your choice. Hasn't failed me yet."

"Dealt with other amnesiacs, have you?"

"If I had, you wouldn't know because you can't _remember_."

Unfortunately, he has a point. For reasons she cannot put her finger on, this irritates her immensely. She crosses her arms over her chest lightly, favors him with a glare (and the bastard doesn't have the decency to cower, simply arches a brow as if to ask what reaction she fancied her ill temper might evoke), "Don't rub it in."

And his voice is remarkably serious, concerned, all things considered, "Never, Wash. I'm trying to help."

"I know," and she does, reaches out and gives his arm a reassuring squeeze before leaning back. The man flashes her a comforting smile, glances down at the plex in his lap (still pretending it's official, though they're both in on the ruse).

From the doorway, someone clears their throat. A glance, both of them turning.

The figure is striking, tall and lean, well muscled. Her mind conjures a few more colorful descriptors (obscenely handsome, is perhaps the most tolerable with the other gleefully inappropriate, threatening to color her cheeks an impossible crimson) which are pointedly ignored. He offers her a small smile when her gaze settles on him, shifts slightly.

Nathaniel Taylor is not an awkward man. By nature, he is confident, self assured. But there's something in his posture that always seems like it's…second guessing. Hands resting at the small of his back, rigid, military posture. Jim glances between the two of them, sets the plex on the bed, rises. Understands, despite what people might think, when he is not needed.

"I'm sure you too have some catching up to do. Going to go see if Liz needs some help…"

He goes to move past the other man, is nearly halfway across the room before she calls out.

"Shannon, wait…"

Both men stare at that. Something almost like desperation in her tone. It's not one she uses frequently (one Shannon's _never_ heard her use) and it causes him to come to a stop almost comically quickly, whirling on her, immediately attentive. She regrets it immediately, sets her jaw, squares her shoulder as if she can undo her momentary lapse of judgment through sheer force of will alone. It's too late. They've both seen it, both fret over it in their own ways (Shannon by leaping to her side; Taylor by shifting uncomfortably in the background). She frowns, tone steady, strong, "You don't have to go."

Her eyes convey what her words never will. That she's entreating him to stay, not to leave her alone with the other man. It's a foolish thing. His returns the gaze, soft, warm, soothing over her worry, assures her as best he's able that she'll be alright. As a sheriff, a cop, he understands. Knows at least a little (even if she hasn't mentioned it, will never mention it) what's she's gone through, the uncertainty she's feeling. Reaches out and gives her hand a squeeze, voice soft, quiet, so only she can hear, "This is a part of you, Wash. Accept it." Presses a friendly kiss to her forehead, smiles warmly as he leans away.

He turns before he leaves the small room, arms out wide, more in line with the playful man she's come to remember, "I'll be back in a couple of hours. Reynolds wants to show you home. Which you'll hate." Jim winks, smirks, "As your _real_ friend, tonight I'm going to take you out drinking; we'll celebrate your return in style." It's a less than subtle reassurance that he'll be back to check on her, return if she needs him. Reminds her that she has others willing to look out for her. And while she's become accustomed to self reliance over these last few months the prospect that's she's no longer alone (if she so chooses) is a comforting one. An almost laughably weak, insecure sort of safety net, but a comforting one she allows herself to take solace in regardless. The Commander and the Lieutenant watch the man leave in silence. It had been comfortable for them at one point, still is in a way.

For a moment, Taylor simply stares at her. It's a look she's rapidly growing tired of, one that's been turned on her perhaps a thousand times too many in the span of the last hour. As if she's a ghost, as if they want to reach out, touch her, simply to verify her presence. Like she's some novelty, a symbol of something she no longer remembers and no longer carries weight with her. There's something almost sad in his expression, strange, at odds with the man's impossible inner strength. A second glance reveals it in his eyes, the blue less vibrant than it once might have been. Pleased, but ultimately…resigned.

It shouldn't pain her, should make her rejoice considering what the bastard's put her through. But the dull ache in her stomach at the sight refuses to dissipate. And she hates herself, is furious, that he is still capable of effecting her in such a way. She has no memories of him other than what she's been fed (Lucas does not tell, he feeds, carefully spooned select information, flavored with enough of the truth to settle with her damaged mind), nothing to draw on other than the feelings he evokes. Her body nearly hums at his proximity, content, pleased. It's an unwelcome invasion and she clamps down on the sensation immediately, guards snapping back into place.

It'd been much the same the moment she saw him, emerged from the Rover. Seen him standing there, leaning on the railing of Command (and it had simply looked _right_, natural, perfect) suffered the most impossible flood of warmth. Fought the urge to smile at him, tell him she'd made it back to him. It'd taken her a hell of a lot longer then she'd originally intended, but she'd done it. She's back. Fought her way back to his side just as she always has.

It took conscious thought, real control to restrain herself at his touch. A platonic handshake, nothing more. All her military reserve called upon in one moment to suppress the electric jolt his skins elicited. Weak, unapologetically weak, a reminder of how desperately she'd allowed herself to fall for this man.

It takes conscious thought to restrain herself now. A piece of her longs to reach out, voice soothing, attempt to placate him. Assure him everything will work out. That it will return to how it's always been, her trotting along blithely at his heels. That the notion, surrender, comes to her so quickly is ultimately what steels her against the sensation. She'd permitted him to dominate her life in such a manner once before and paid the ultimate price. She is many things, and while foolish, is not stupid enough, lax enough, to permit the same thing happen twice.

And so he stares and she returns his gaze, blue to amber, resigned to meet determined, a reversal of roles they have etched out over the years.

His voice clicks into place immediately in her head, is welcomed like an old friend, caressing her nerves where his sons had torn at them, inane though his opening question is. So many months apart, so long together, and the best he can manage is, "How you feeling, Wash?"

Her answer is an equally neutral, "Fine, sir."

"You look…" _Like hell_, her mind finishes blithely in his voice, the tone light, teasing, as if he's welcomed her back in such a manner a thousand times. He catches himself before the words escapes him, settles on the more traditional (less intimate, less personal, less meaningful), "Good." He settles on a lie, pretty and appeasing.

The entirely wrong tactic, considering the company she's been keeping. Somehow the misstep only aggravates her opinion of him, validates Lucas'. And while her subconscious rallies a valiant defense (he's making an effort, being polite), it is ultimately shunted back into the recesses of her mind. Added to the ever growing pile of issues she's somehow accumulated (and decides that death is ultimately a messy business, too full of emotional baggage, too complicated for her simple tastes. Perhaps there's a reason it's traditionally final).

"Thank you."

"Do you mind if I sit?"

An absurd question; she nods, "Of course, sir."

The man moves with an undeniable grace, lazy and natural as he moves through the routine task. Drags one of the available chairs over to her bedside. Nearer than befits a superior officer, slightly further than befits an intimate friend. A line, drawn somewhere between the two that he effectively straddles. Silent again, toying with something in his hands, a thin metal chair he idly weaves about his fingers. Not so terribly dissimilar from the one that hangs about his own neck.

He is, again the one that breaks the silence, "Doc Shannon tells me you're…having a few issues remembering things."

She snorts, "That's one way to put it, sir."

"We'll get you back, Wash. I promise."

_Get you back._ As if what she is now is not something worth keeping. The warmth in his tone, the subtle, bleeding notes of desperation is stubbornly ignored, "Of course, Commander."

"But until then…" he frowns, runs a hand tiredly through his hair. Shakes his head, extends his free hand toward her. When she simply stares at it, curious, confused, he smiles (and she hates, despises, how she almost reflexively returns to sentiment), "Name's Nathaniel Taylor, Commander of Terra Nova."

She stares at him blankly for a long moment, wonders if she heard him correctly. But the hand remains extended to her, blues eyes pleading that she give him this. He won't ask anything more if she just permits him this, however foolish, however silly, it is. An oversimplification of an impossible problem, an attempt to soothe the edges of something that must be jagged, must tear, if it's to heal correctly.

But it's an effort. And whatever she feels for him, she finds herself extending her hand, a smile tugging at her entirely unwilling lips, "Alicia Washington." He accepts the shake quickly, fingers closing about her hand, coming to rest about her wrist. Oddly intimate for an introductory handshake, but she doesn't protest. Cannot, when he continues to hold her hand, eyes never leaving hers. Still sad, still resigned, still unlike the man she remembers (or doesn't, for that matter).

There's an emotion in his voice she cannot put a name too and it troubles her for an equaling puzzling reason (because at one time she'd known all of his emotions hadn't she? The loss is a keen one) when he speaks, "Pleasure to meet you." Even he cannot help but shake his head at that, and his look is almost apologetic.

Wash wants to chuckle, asks him if he has any other stupid things to ask her. Wonders why he isn't concerned where she's come from (how's she's been, how she survived). If he's curious as to his son's whereabouts or her favorite color (blue. Same shade as his eyes, idiotic as it is). For whatever reasons he leaves these hurts lie, a far cry from Lucas. Releases her hand with a small degree of hesitation and leans back.

Crosses his arms over his chest, chuckles to himself again, "You know, we're looking for a new Lieutenant here in the colony. It's a tall order but, given your history, I'm wondering if you aren't interested."

The answer escapes her before she has time to think about it, a reflexive, "Yes, sir." He arches a brow at her haste and she scowls, more at herself then at him, "With your permission I'd like some time to think about it. Sir."

"Of course, Wash," Her answer isn't much, but it's evidently more than he was hoping for. Strange, all things considered. Taylors voice is determined, an obvious promise if she's willing to take it, "I'm willing to wait." Something in his tenor sends a thrill through her, sets her nerves humming anew.

There is no reason such a simple phrase should affect her in such a manner. That it does is not acceptable.

He gives whatever in his hand a comforting squeeze, looks like he almost extends it to her. Rescinds the offer at the last moment. The man flashes her a final smile before nodding and dismissing himself, the resignation in his eyes still present, banked by something dangerously akin to hope.

And despite her better judgment, she cannot stop the ache in her gut at the sight. Wash frowns, runs a hand through her hair. Shoves the issue beneath her ever growing collection.

She home, that's all that matters. For the moment, that can be all that matters.

* * *

><p><strong>An:** Transitional chapter, why are you such a damn nuisance? All I can say is, oh thank you for being done. Thank you. I think I died a little inside writing this. But it's over, we've entered the next stage of the story and there should not, hopefully, be any more huge delays between chapters. Whoo!


	7. Chapter 7: Haze

A/N: And we're back! I have nothing to say here (MADNESS!) so…read on. :D

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Haze<strong>

* * *

><p>In all of Terra Nova there isn't a place quite like Boylan's bar. It's a unique establishment, the atmosphere entirely its own. There's an ease to the air, a comfort that is difficult to put a finger on. Low, natural, light meant to set its patrons at ease. Wash finds herself relaxing almost immediately as they descend the steps, allows the soldier to ease up a bit. Shannon notes the change with approval, gives her a reassuring smile.<p>

Darkness has fallen outside and, true to his word, Shannon had shown up not six hours after her release from the hospital, rapping at her door with far too much cheer, stealing her from the rest she'd chosen to indulge in once Mark left her home (it had taken more than an hour, more than few reassuring words to set him at ease with leaving her). She'd waited until the kid was out of sight, closed to the door behind him. Glanced around her house unseeingly, worried her lower lip between her teeth.

The place looked almost Spartan, and she'd had every intention of investigating, just needed a moment to rest, to fend off the exhaustion encroaching on her after the eventful day (months). Marched down the hall without pausing to take in her surroundings. She'd fallen into bed, and a restless sleep, without even considering exploring what had once been her home. Had every intention to rouse herself within a few minutes, an hour at the most.

The sun had set when she awoken.

She'd had half a mind to call Jim and cancel their plans, stay in.

She's been back in the man's company for just a few days now and has already determined arguing with him is an impossible sport. Having sensed she might express some reservations he'd simply showed up at her door, all smiles and good cheer, dragging her along in his wake.

Now, she's happy she's agreed. Surrounding herself with laughter, with life, is infinitely preferable to a night alone (memories and nightmares and all the damn problems she's kept suppressed rearing their heads in the silence of such evenings). The hand resting lightly on her elbow gives a squeeze, signals they're changing direction, heading towards the counter. The man there (older, a little heavier set than the majority of Terra Novans) looks up immediately, surprise and an undeniable satisfaction immediately ruling his expression, holds up an arm in salute. She returns it slowly, feels Shannon rolling his eyes.

"Lieutenant Washington, back from the dead and looking well. A pleasure to see your lovely face around here again," she offers the older man a grateful smile, as he sets an impressive emerald colored beverage in front of her. The thing smells of licorice and nearly burns her nostrils. Considering the obvious alcohol content, the color, everything, she doesn't doubt that it's rare and damn expensive. Stares down at the drink in front of her. Back up at the man. He winks playfully, leaning forward on the counter, "Only the best for my favorite Lieutenant."

Shannon snorts, shakes his head amusedly at the other mans antics, "Trying to get in before she remembers you, eh Boylan?"

The man shrugs, his smirk too wide and too cheerful to pass for anything other than a blatant fraud, a little nearer to slimy than she's comfortable with. Despite it all there's an undeniable charm there, a lazy sort that either sets one at ease or evokes a sense of irritation not easily squelched. And while he does dip his head, acknowledging Shannon's words, there's no denying there's a certain fondness in his eyes. Jim gives her shoulder a light squeeze, inclines his heads towards a group of soldiers near the back. A young man is serving them drinks, a content sort of smile turning his features, "Going to go check on my son. Think you can manage without me?"

"I'll count the seconds till your return, Shannon," it earns her another grin, a pat to the shoulder before he departs, leaving her sitting at the bar alone.

After the quite of the Badlands the cacophony of the bar is almost overwhelming. Comforting, after its own right, friendly; the sensation of being completely enveloped by humanity, by hope, good cheer. There's nothing sobering about the place, nothing to call bad memories to mind. It's a place to forget, more than anything else, and that's precisely what she needs (or doesn't, for that matter, but she's not in the mood to argue semantics). Smiles at the music drifting about the air, runs her fingers around the rim of her glass.

"It's not going to bite you, Lieutenant," Boylan again, leaning amusedly against the counter, dish rag in front of him, looking like some cliché, stereotypical bartender from old world media. The prospect amuses her more than it should; she chuckles, nods. With an appreciative tip of her head, she plucks the drink from the counter. Not certain whether or not it's meant for sipping or shooting she tosses the thing back in one swallow. The burn is more intense than any she's ever experienced, leaves her throat constricting for a brief moment. If she didn't have a reputation to uphold she'd cough, something, anything to get air back in her lungs. Instead, she blinks it aside, stares at the man in surprise.

He nods, chuckling, "Good stuff, huh? Damn difficult to make, more of a nuisance to sell. Not everyone appreciates the uh…"he makes a lazy gesture, "Particular flavor." Licorice, if she's guessing correctly, pleasant and sweet, though it's difficult to pick out through the incessant burn. He takes the glass from her hands, smiles at her, "Something else to suit your fancy, then?"

"What do I usually drink?"

"Depends entirely on the situation, I'm afraid. Scotch when you're feeling friendly, wine when you're feeling introspective and," Boylan smirks, leans forward, "A special something I whipped up years back for everything in between."

She doesn't feel particularly keen on admitting to belonging to either of the afore mentioned emotional spheres (isn't keen on someone she can't remember knowing her so her well) and so takes the easy way out, shrugs, "I'll defer to your better judgment."

"Scotch it is then. The good stuff for you." She doesn't' remember it, but it's always the good stuff for her. None of the questionable, ever changing, never quite right, alcohol they've taken to brewing in Terra Nova. Where she's concerned, for whatever reason, it's always the remnants of his collection, things he'd had shipped through the portal. Considering their current condition, that they are forever cut off from that distant world, the offer is remarkably touching.

The soldier leans on the counter, watching from the corner of her eye as Shannon converses with his son. The kid looks at ease, pleased with the turn of things. Catches her staring and smiles, a slight tip of his head to signal he's caught her and isn't particularly troubled with it. She's met almost universally with such expressions. Smiles, grateful and affectionate. Strange, suddenly being thrust into such an environ. Finds herself shifting uncomfortably under the attention.

Maybe he senses her discomfort, maybe he intended to say it anyway, but Boylan's voice pulls her from her from her reverie, "Whatever Shannon may say about my motives, Lieutenant, it is good to have you back."

"Oh?" Not thank you, not anything, just oh. As if surprised that he's suddenly feeling so open, so honest, when she's fairly certain he's made a sport of playing the angles. He accepts her more harsh tone with a pleased grin, nods.

Is struck by the honesty in his voice, "Whatever my feelings for our intrepid Commander, I've always had a certain fondness for you Lieutenant Washington. Believe me or don't but you bring a certain quality to the colony that we all need."

"And what's that?"

He smiles, shrugs, "Ah, now that is the question. And I do not have an answer for you, I'm afraid." Because it's difficult to put a finger on, nearly impossible to quantify what the woman does for the colony. It brings with it a sort of sadness as she nods, stares down at her drink; difficult to find an answer. Perhaps one isn't needed; they've done perfectly well without her these past few months. He clucks his tongue in disapproval as her expression falls ever so slightly, "Now, now, none of that. Not going to have you moping around my bar your first night back."

Another shot set in front of her, a tumbler of amber colored liquid, "Get over to Shannon, girl. Man's a pain in my ass but he seems to do you some good."

Stares at him a long moment before nodding slowly, rising.

"Thank you, Boylan." Perhaps it's simply some sense but he understands her, knows she isn't simply referring to the drink. He inclines his head briefly in acknowledgment before again throwing a pointed glance towards Shannon. It's in her best interests to concede and so she does, crossing to the booth the Sheriff's settled himself in. From the drinks in front of him she can only assume his son has filled his order. A scotch for her. It brings a smile to her face (always something charming in someone simply knowing what you want, not having to ask).

He smiles, indicates the opposite side of their table, "Make yourself comfortable, Wash. We've got a lot to drink to and too few hours to get it done."

"An encouraging prospect; do we have an occasion or is this simply a routine…?"

Jim stares at her, blinks, shakes his head, "I suppose if you coming back from the dead isn't a good enough reason to get shit faced with me," he taps fingers lightly against the table, glances around at the place. Though they're attempting subtly, it's fairly obvious the majority of the patrons are watching them, listening to the exchange intently, unwilling to approach the woman just yet. "Drinking alone isn't half as fun, and what do you know. You left me to go wandering in the desert with the Taylor's dreamy kid." She snorts, almost chokes on her drink and ends up having to swipe a hand over her lips to collect the stray liquid. From his chuckle, the Sheriff finds it humorous, "Consider this making up for all the nights you missed."

"Three months drinking in one night? Tall order, Shannon."

He winks, "I've been known to inspire to greatness, Lieutenant."

"Funny, I can't seem to remember that."

"Then I'm damn lucky you're an amnesiac, aren't I?" The words ought to sting. Instead, she can't help the sharp burst of laughter than escapes her. He holds his arms out wide as if triumphant.

"I've just suffered a near fatal head injury, Shannon. I don't think this is the best idea."

"Eh, what's one more forgotten night in the grand scheme of things?"

It has her arching a brow, leaning forward on the table, resting easily on her arms. Shannon leans forward to match her, mischief playing at the corners of his lips. It's a charming sort of expression, one she knows is intended to either frustrate or manipulate her. She glances down, plucks a shot from the table, swirls the liquid experimentally, eyes flicking from the amber color to the blue of his eyes, sparkling in the low light, entirely, openly, pleased with her return. It warms her more than it should and she sighs, yields, "Does your wife know what you try and pressure her patients into?"

And the bastard knows he's won, grins that too wide grin, leans back against the booth, rests a hand behind his head, "Don't answer a question with a question, Wash. It's poor form," accepts the drink she offers to him, hold his glass out to her, voice light, teasing, "Now drink with me. You're making too much sense for a dead woman."

"Your logic is undeniable, Shannon," She doesn't both muffling her chuckle, dark hair tickling her shoulders with the movement. Holds up her glass in salute, unable to keep the smile from turning her lips.

He smirks, "About time you came to terms with that."

* * *

><p>Contrary to Shannon, the Commander believes fully in drinking alone. Nothing more satisfying. No chance of making a fool of himself, just the quiet, the burn of the alcohol and the ghosts, the memories, which occasionally come to visit. It isn't an altogether unpleasant experience (sometimes the shades are civil, almost sociable) but each leaves him feeling hollow, an echo of the man he once was. It's foolish and impractical to shape oneself to better suit another; he is a leader, a champion of men, and his place is molding others. But he, as all have, has allowed another to adjust him over the years. The ghosts always take a sick sort of pleasure in reminding him of this.<p>

He has allowed another human to influence (really truly remake him, repair the gaps in his psyche) twice. Ayani, who had taken a boy, steeled him, supported him. Ayani, who had his youth and hope, who had been privileged to see him innocent and young, who had lived to bury both qualities. Ayani, his love, his life, his light. He drinks to her memory, feels something wretch painfully in his chest. A dull ache that time has made tolerable, a scar that pains him yet. A part of him is convinced it will never truly heal.

As long as it keeps her ghost with him, he will not protest.

And Wash. His fiery eyed second, somehow both the twin and antithesis of his wife. Opposing halves of one whole, night and day, both beautiful in their distinct fashion. Ayani had been youth; Wash age. Already worn down, broken, she had plucked him from the ruins of his life, fashioned the jagged shards back into a passable image of a man. Strength, unyielding determination, loyalty, all binding her to him, elegant bands, more silk than steel, that he willing permits her dress them in. For better or worse, he's shaped her, created her. And she in turn had done the same, subtle alterations he barely recognizes to better suit her.

He keeps her ghost with him as well, will continue to until she returns to him, well and truly returns.

Feels her still beneath his fingers, the warmth of her skin, so alive, so warm. His Lieutenant's face had stared at him unknowingly, a mockery of the friend he's come to rely on. In a way, it's more poignant than her demise. One death traded for another.

He shakes his head, chuckles bitterly into his drink. Only his second of the evening, just enough to take the edge of the day off. Calm the thoughts racing through his head. He is a military man, strategy and action bound up in one being. This is simply a problem, like any other. With the right tactics, the correct resources, it can be overcome, will be overcome.

He has lost one woman. He will not lose a second.

Feels the alcohol (scotch, a gift he'd meant to give to her and had never gotten around to) burn over his tongue, down his throat. Plucks her tags from around his neck once more, flicks them on. For all her strict obedience to laws and regulations, she's hacked them. Stores the barest necessities there. Pictures to remind her of her old life. A few of their unit, one of her family, another of her and Reynolds.

And one of the two of them.

He doesn't remember when it'd been taken (a lie. He remembers particularly vividly. It had rained that day, the world suitably miserable, to suit their spirits), doesn't remember who'd managed to catch them in such a moment. The exodus of the Sixers had left the colony fractured, reeling, the betrayal unheard of in their idealistic world. It had been, more than anything else, the death of their new dawn's innocence. It's written across his face, clear as day, blue eyes staring sightlessly towards the jungle. At his side, the ever dutiful, omnipresent, Lieutenant stoic; at a glance, there is nothing out of the ordinary.

She is closer than she has any right being, their arms nearly overlapping. Her eyes follow his, traces the clouds of dust as they move out into that wild. Nothing out of the ordinary. But he remembers sighing, remembers the grief, the weight settling in on him. Remembers the brush of her fingers against his own, brief though it had been, a momentary comfort more effective than any pleasant words. She remained at his side, would remain there eternally.

He brushes a thumb fondly over the image, replaces the tags about his neck, tired of memories, tired of what if's and the uncertainties they bring with them.

In the balmy evening, the jungle humming with life just outside his window, he's aware of the trilling of his comm. unit. A moment's pause before he moves to retrieve it, "Taylor."

"Ah, Commander, glad I was able to reach you."

He scowls, "Boylan."

"Pleasure to hear your voice as well, sir. Was hoping you'd get your fine self down to the bar. I do believe I have something you've lost. And she's making a damn mess. If you would be so kind as to collect her…"

A hand through his hair, a shake of his head. Shannon. She's been back for less than a day and already the man has her engaged in such impossible behavior. His voice is forced, irritated, "Be right there." Boots heavy on the floor as he moves, knows his pace is rushed, almost eager to get there, "And Boylan. If anything happens to her…"

The man on the other end of the line openly laughs, snorts, "Oh, no, Taylor. It isn't her I'm worried about."

Somehow that only worries him more.

* * *

><p>Admittedly, it's been a while since she's drank…like this.<p>

She's beginning to think there's a reason for it.

She and Shannon are perfectly well suited for each other in most endeavors. She brings a much needed dose of realism to his idealism, he a liveliness to contrast her stoicism. Both are stubborn, almost to a fault, both are intelligent (in differing fashions), both take a profound delight in trading barbs with the other. They are, all in all, excellent company, one feeding the other, edging them on. In work related affairs, it's an enviable boon.

In this particular field, it's a damn nuisance.

Shannon is, to no one's great surprise, a remarkably cheerful drunk, finds humor in most anything. Too many drinks and he becomes rather aggressive, more than that and he's swaying back to his more friendly baseline. The Lieutenant is not so terribly dissimilar, allows her guards to slip, becomes increasingly more tactile, her touches more light and more frequent. It's a pleasant stage, and one she usually manages to keep herself to. Beyond that, her high spirits tend to take an ignoble dip. She's still tactile but in a much less…pleasant fashion. In such a mood she's both eager and willing to fight. It's a state she tries, to the best of her abilities, to avoid.

And is precisely where she is now. Inebriated as she is, this amuses her. Which, considering her current position, it likely should not. She heaves an overly dramatic sigh, shakes her head as the three men approach her, smirking. Ex-Sixers, from the markings, left behind (willingly or otherwise) during the evacuation of the colony, and every bit as far gone as she is. One looks barely capable of keeping on his feet, let alone fighting.

Strangely, no one seems keen on moving to stop them, eager for their Lieutenant to display her lauded skills anew. Prove she's still the hero she remembers. Boylan hastily gestures to the more key bits of furniture and they are quickly shoves to the side, clearly enough room for them to move. Lieutenant Washington, backlit by the moonlight flooding down the stairs, the bruises on her features standing out more starkly, against three men.

Not terrible odds, if she says so herself.

Somewhere to her left, Shannon is laughing.

Bastard, some help he is (and it irritates her since for once, for _once_, she hadn't initiated the fight, it had been _Shannon_ and now here she is footing the damn bill, as it were). None to nimbly, she ducks under one of her opponents fists. A quick kick to the knee brings him down; a follow through to his head renders him immobile. Simple enough. The other two pause, exchange a glance and advance on her in unison.

She grits her teeth, falls into a comfortable rhythm, dodges what she can, deflects when she's able. They aren't terrible fighters, not by a long shot, and she's tired, drunk. An unpleasant amalgamation. The smaller of the two men catches her fist, attempts to hold it immobile. Brings her leg up while pulling his arm down and is rewarded with a most satisfying snapping sound, his sharp yell coloring the air. Preoccupied as she is, she's not entirely able to shift out of his friends bath, feels a shoulder collide with her torso. Combined with her already questionable balance she falls, lands on her ass, stares confusedly up waiting for an attack that never comes.

For a moment, she almost thinks it's Shannon, eager to redeem himself, defend her. But the man is moving to her side, and her attacker is being suspended a few feet off the ground in front of her. The Sheriff, looking surprisingly sober now, slides an arm under her own without bothering to ask for permission, assists her wordlessly to her feet.

Not Shannon who defended her at all. The Sixer is tossed easily aside, a worried expression clear on his features. And there, in all his glory, is a remarkably put out looking Nathaniel Taylor, blue eyes fixed unwaveringly upon her person. He doesn't speak, simply makes a motion for them to follow him, get to somewhere more private before they discuss matters. A hush has descended upon the place, all eager to watch the most recent developments.

It isn't Taylor's way to embarrass or shame his soldiers. Not if he can help it. And so when he summons them, wordlessly begins to climb the stairs back to colony, both the Sheriff and Lieutenant follow, unwilling to allow their behavior to reflect poorly on themselves and, more importantly, the man who has extended such a mercy to them.

The colony streets are sparsely populated, most families at home, most everyone else at the bar. Unfortunate, as it means they do not have to move far for their little…spat.

Shannon steps forward immediately, not so subtly positions himself between the woman and her Commanding Officer. As if she needs protection of any such sort, as if she needs guarding from him. It has her arching an amused brow; Taylor scowling. "Sir, our behavior was unacceptable…."

"You're damn right it was, Shannon. How did you think it looked, the two of you down there?"

"Like a couple of drunken idiots, I know. But the idea was mine. And the blame should be too." The blunt statement earns him a shake of the head from his Commanding Officer and a indignant glance from his friend. She is not one to allow others to fight her battles for her. As eagerly as she will sacrifice herself for the ones she loves she is loathe having the favor returned. She lets out an aggravated huff, crosses arms over her chest. And while the three of them know the score, Shannon is not backing down, remains positioned between the two of them.

Taylor fixes him with a hard look, "Did you force the Lieutenant to drink with you? Twist her arm, intimidate her?"

The prospect has both of them snorting, exchanging a glance, she comes forward to stand at the Sherriff's side, links her arms behind her back, "No, sir. Shannon did not force me."

"Depends on what you mean by force, sir. Physically, no, I didn't, but if you mean verbally…"

She holds up a hand, sets it on his arm lightly, "Shannon." The tone is final, leaves no room for argument. This is a small thing, no need for him to stick his neck out for her. The man is visibly torn, then nods, takes a step back. It's a change the Commander notes immediately, pleased. She almost shivers (and hates herself for it) when his gaze settles on her, something she isn't entirely certain how to describe flitting within his eyes, somehow burning with a light all their own.

"Dismissed, Shannon. We'll discuss your behavior, and punishment, in the morning."

"Sir…" Moving between them again, attempting to shield his friend. Wash scowls, gives him a not so delicate shove. It isn't enough to dissuade him. Taylor holds up a hand, silencing his protests.

"The Lieutenant will be fine, Sheriff. Get yourself home, I'm sure your wife's waiting."

Not a request, an order. Taylor does not look kindly on those who disobey commands, a not so subtle cue that it's time for the younger man to take his leave. Jim shoots her a final glance, clasps a hand on her shoulder and nods. Doesn't offer her an apology (it isn't needed, they are both aware), doesn't bid her goodnight (it will only irritate their impatient CO). The older man's eyes never leave her, never falter in their intensity. She stares right back, catalogues his expression, determined and steeled in the evening light. Alien and familiar all at once, not something she cares to dwell on.

Silence, as they wait for Shannon to create enough distance. Silence until he's disappeared around a corner. Silence until the older man is positive he's gone. Then he simply motions for her to follow him. When she hesitates, he frowns. No words, words are for those less intimately acquainted, less familiar, less in tune. No words as she moves, long strides bringing her to his side, doesn't ask where he's taking her, what he intends (and she does not for a second worry that it will do her harm. He will never knowingly allow her to come to harm; the intensity of the thought and the unyielding faith in the sentiment momentarily wind her).

She knows, in that absent part of her still aware of her past life, based more in instinct than memory, that he's being particularly lenient with her, more than a little distant and perhaps slightly aloof. He permits her to walk on her own, though he never strays particularly far from her side. If she swings her arm even slightly wide (as opposed to keeping them firmly against her side) their fingers will inevitably brush. The proximity should be uncomfortable; it isn't. For all the world, she can't think of anything more natural, soothing, then the brief sensation of warmth it leaves crawling over her skin.

He comes to a halt behind Command, a clear patch of earth they tend to use for combat training; nothing much, but closer and more private then going to the barracks. He leaves her side to stand in front of her (and she pretends not to notice how striking his absence is), arms crossed behind his back.

"Technique's gotten sloppy, Wash. Those kids shouldn't have been able to hit you."

The Lieutenant arches a brow, "Sir?" Because he cannot honestly be implying what she thinks he is. Of course she's a little less on the ball. She'd been _shot_. In the _head_. She'd been drug through the damn desert by his damn son; she'd forgotten her damn life. And the bastard has the nerve to lecture her on her stance? Her hands clench near her waist, a thing he notes with a smile. Insufferable man.

The Commander holds up a pacifying hand, smiles at her (smirks, the same smirk his son so frequently totes. Somehow all knowing, somehow strips aside the fortifications around her hearts), "Don't pull that face, Lieutenant. I'm not implying anything."

"You're implying I'm inferior to the woman I was."

"I'm offering to help you remember her." Intentional or simply a matter of genetics the words are eerily reminiscent of Lucas', a manipulation still too fresh in her mind. She scowls at him, moves to depart, and doesn't care overtly much that he has not dismissed her, that showing her back to him is a dangerous thing in of itself. She said she needed time and he'd permitted that. And now he's pushing, however hard, to reshape her into the tool he's so fond of using, discarding.

She doesn't even hear him moving behind her. Doesn't react until he's flush at her back, one of his legs wrapping around hers, shifts it outwards till she's woefully overbalanced. She falls to her knees, bites down hard on her lip to suppress her gasp at the sharp pain. Taylor remains behind her a second longer than propriety dictates, gives her a light squeeze to signal there's no malice behind his attack. The disparity between the two maneuvers has her head swimming momentarily; steels down on the sensation, the way her body hums with him pressed at her back.

She hates it, lashes back with her elbow to catch him in the ribs, pitches her weight back. He's prepared for it, tightens his hold on her and follows the movement through. Rolls them, catches her hands, knee to her chest to pin her. The added weight makes breathing more difficult and her ribs scream in protest. Against her best efforts, she winces.

He instantly removes himself, hauls her to her feet, all concern, apologetic.

She should walk away, sleep this off. She's not in her right mind, she's not fit enough (mentally or physically) to handle this. Time and distance are what she needs and his proximity is only aggravating the wound she wishes to heal. She needs to move, run, anything. Needs to get away from him and whatever the hell this is.

The Lieutenant does none of those things. It's barely even a thought, a decision, as she moves back into him. Treads squarely on his toes (not the most honorable tactic, she'll be the first to admit), ducks under his arm before he manages to get a hold on her. The man's impossibly fast but so is she. And his superior physical strength matters far less in a practice bout. He turns before she finishes her kick, catches her leg. Focuses on planning her next attack and not the feel of his fingers on her thigh, not the momentarily distracted look that flits over his features (won't admit that it briefly steals the capacity for rational thought from her).

"You're better than this, Wash," he smirks at her, catches her wrist and gives a warning squeeze when she attempts to wrench it free. Ducks underneath her swing and brings his knee up towards her stomach. The differences between sparring the father and the son are night and day. Instinct had been enough to best the boy. Nathaniel is a man and her mind simply cannot extract the data quickly enough from the ashes of her memory. She lets out a groan, back connecting painfully with the ground, his knee on her chest again.

The Commander extends a hand to her. Something in her rails at it, the supposed olive branch, stooping to such a level. It's less about practice, more about proving herself. That she's still able to function, still able to fight, still worthy to stand at his side (the last is vehemently rejected the moment it flashes across her thoughts). She bats it aside, gets to her feet under her own power. Though he says nothing there's something in his eyes that wasn't previously there. Pride maybe, something else she doesn't care to add a name to (and isn't she certain she recognizes in connection to him).

It's a long moment before either engage, circling, gauging the others defenses. A familiar routine, one they've moved through a thousand times before. To the point where his stance is as familiar as her own, each motion carefully catalogued and preserved in her memory, easy to reference, easy to counter. He makes an idle motion with his hand, alludes to her posture, "Ease up, Wash, you're too tense."

Easy for him to say; she does as ordered, shoulders looser, steps nearer to him and allows her thoughts to drift, runs through the motions her body so readily remembers, one strike flowing into the next. Most of the blows he simply accepts, the force light enough to absorb. An unfair advantage of his superior size and strength; she finds herself more frequently ducking and weaving. It's impossible to deny there's a familiarity to the whole of the ordeal, something beyond simple camaraderie. It's nearly a dance, both falling into familiar patterns as they weave around the other, never quite moving out of contact. If (and when) she moves back, he pursues. Taylor shifts his left leg and her right is immediately brought in to counter it. Constant contact, rarely demanded, almost religiously upheld.

The Commander smiles at her, impressed, "Good form, good reflexes. Dare say we'll have you back in shape in no time, Lieutenant."

It's a friendly encounter and despite her reservations she cannot help the smirk that turns her features as she bends at the waist (under his fist, backwards over his knee), pivots the entirety of her figure to the side to swing wide of the follow up strike, "Seems like I'm doing well enough for myself."

"For a smart mouthed rookie, maybe," a sweep of his leg she simply can't avoid and she's down again. This time when she tries to rise she's rewarded with an unyielding hand to her shoulder, holding her flat. "But I expect more of my Lieutenant. I expect more from you, Wash."

It shouldn't burn as much as it does. And he sees the frustration, the disappointment in her eyes as the words settle in, rub against her already frayed nerves. "Again, Wash."

Taylor's soldiers do not stay down. Beaten and bloodied they will rise, just as the man who instructed them. Wash is no different (she is the ideal personified, his creed, his code, given form), rises again, dusts the dirt off her fatigues. Her body aches, the most recent falls only adding to her preexisting bruises. Muscles put under more strain than they really ought so soon after her ordeal. She'll catch hell from Doc Shannon, this she does not doubt.

But she cannot, will not, allow the man in front of her to think she's anything less than she is. Anything less than the memory _he_ has of her.

She comes in too quickly, doesn't size him up correctly. It leaves an impressive gap in her right side that he immediately capitalizes on. The air leaves her lungs in a rush as his elbow collides with her ribs, adjusts quickly, spins into him.

Their eyes lock momentarily and she's struck again by the intensity of the sentiment there. Hope, a desperate desire for her to remember this, give him this. Leads her clumsily through a routine they've performed so frequently, had once been able to move through by nothing other than instinct.

She ducks beneath a poorly (intentionally, she notes with a frown) timed strike, takes the momentary lapse to put space between the two of them. And, as he has all night, he moves after her immediately. A constant push-pull dynamic they cannot break (though she's vaguely aware their positions have flipped, that the role of aggressor has always been hers to play). His eyes so, frighteningly, impossibly, blue flaring to life every time her blows connect, as if each one brings him a step closer to the Lieutenant (the woman) he's lost. The omnipresent pride still glittering as she manages to hold her own, allows herself to slip further back into memories.

The stance is his, modified to suit her smaller frame. The pattern of her movements, the strength, the conviction behind her blows, everything, owes itself to him. He hadn't been her first instructor, hell, hadn't even been her last or her most efficient, but the end results are distinctly colored by his touch, his technique. More aggressive than favored by other officers, more vocal than strictly necessary, goading, challenging. Accept your opponent's blows if it ultimately affords you the advantage.

Fine for him. It had earned her more than her share of broken bones till she'd altered it.

She ducks again, is forced to practically throw herself back to avoid his more recent onslaught. Back to their dance, push and pull, constant contact, neither pushing quite hard enough to effectively offset the other. Catches his wrists, brings her knee up. A move that had floored his son, simply winds him. His hands settle on her waist, grip bruising her hips.

The discomfort the force elicits registers absently in her mind. It pales in comparison to the warmth of his fingers on her bare skin, sends a jolt of something she doesn't care to admit humming across her senses. It's a dangerous pause, one she does not allow herself to ponder. Chooses to ignore the curious expression that flits across his features, chooses to ignore that his thumb strokes across her hip absently, chooses to ignore that her body almost instinctively arches into the touch.

He lets out a surprised grunt when she lashes out, booted foot connecting with his shin, quickly breaks their contact.

Memories playing out inside her head, across the canvas of her shredded mind, their timing inconvenient. They've performed this (nearly blow for blow) before. It's her early days as a private, just transferred to his unit, still fresh faced and naïve enough to believe in the romanticism of war (a childish notion stolen from her during her first skirmish). As a medic her training had included very little on hand to hand combat. As a rule, she would not be entering the fray. She could afford to let her training slip in that regard if it was upheld in others (she was a damn fine medic, even then, and a damn good shot, what else could matter?).

To any other CO she was perfectly fit. To Taylor she was a liability. And he'd told her as much. Drug her out into their improvised sparring ring and set her on her ass. And when she refused to get up, stubbornly set her chin, he'd looked at her with such disappointment it had nearly torn her heart from her chest. She'd climbed to her feet immediately. And when she fell again (and the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after…) she'd gotten up without question. Anything to avoid that look.

She wasn't a bad fighter. Not by any means. But compared to the others, in a real fight, not a skirmish, she was a liability.

Taylor did not permit liabilities. Not when the lives of his unit were on the line.

He'd offered her a hand up and she'd taken it, dirty, dark hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, panting, smiled and clasped her shoulder, "You're better than this, Wash." Nothing more, nothing less. Simply, "_You're better than this_."

She'd made it true. If it meant standing at his side, she'd make it true.

Washington's done it once before, she can damn well do it again.

The blow to her shoulder is accepted, shrugged off despite the dull ache it sends shooting through her torso, down her arm. She scowls, swallows the pain, and pushes forward. The pride in his eyes shines brighter as her right leg hooks behind his, gives a tug forward.

It'd been the first thing she'd tried when he took to training her. It'd ended with her on her ass, his knee planted firmly on her chest. This time she simply initiates, waits for him to brace and throw his weight forward. Slides to the side beneath his outstretched arm. She doesn't doubt, not for a second, that's he's restraining himself for her benefit. The thought is simultaneously intriguing (endearing) and insulting. The majority of her weight thrown into a booted kick to the back of his knee, thrown against his back as he tumbles forward, decidedly overbalanced.

If he wanted, it'd be the simplest thing in the world, reversing their positions. He turns to face her as they fall but refuses to roll them, refuses to claim that advantage. The Lieutenant stares down at him, an arm resting lightly against his throat as she straddles his chest.

Pride and something else entirely.

Her seat isn't particularly defendable, lacks the leverage she'd possess if she were a bit lower. Hell, there are numerous ways he could handle this. Hands under her arms, launch her over his head. A quick shove to dislodge her, roll to pin her beneath him. And she doesn't doubt for even a moment that were she the Lieutenant Washington of her prior life he wouldn't think twice about any of those tactics. They'd been familiar in ways she's only just beginning to realize and the contact would have been readily dismissed.

Now, he doesn't trust her, isn't entirely certain how she'd react. Now, he's willing to indulge her. And she doesn't for a second miss the way his muscles constrict, coil, beneath her, how the restraint is a conscious act on his part. Again, the concern is nearly touching.

Lowers her arm to rest against his clavicle, feels his hands come to settle on her waist, steadying her when she leans precariously forward. Their weight is a comforting presence, a striking contrast to his sons. The part of her shifted, tainted, by the young man bristles beneath her skin. And the woman she's only just beginning to remember relaxes, the tension leaving her body at the contact. She quirks her head to the side, puzzled as fingers brush over her belt, their warmth kissing her cooler skin, a striking contrast to the air around them.

If he's even aware of the gestures (lulling her away, instinctively easing the pain in her head, dulling the screams of protest to a tolerable thrumming sensation), he makes no sign of it. Neither makes to move, and she very nearly manages the smirk she attempts, receives a more steeled one in return.

Blue eyes, pale and burning in the low light, such a focal point in her memory. Hands on her waist, gentle, supportive, a far cry from the possessive grasp of her young creator. A far cry from her memories (altered as they are) of him. It has the edges of the past and present colliding, one eroding the other, attempting to shift immovable pieces to better suit his whims. She clamps down on it immediately, summons a reserve, a calm, she does not feel.

Another pass of his thumb before the movements still, gripping her, holding her steady. Less for her benefit, more for his, as if he's suddenly intent on validating her presence. And as desperately as that part of her demands she move, run, anything, she cannot bring herself to shift beneath his grasp. Simply stares, curious, confused, by the change in him.

Proud again, smile more amused and friendly then it has any right being (but the intimacy is not presumed, has been earned regardless of her memories, in contrast to his son), seems more at ease then she's seen him since her arrival, "Well, what do you know, memories or not you're still her."

The statement doesn't connect, isn't something she's able to make sense of. Her technique is, as he himself pointed out, lacking, shows noticeable holes. Her victory, such as it is, is nothing more than a pretty sham. Her voice, slightly puzzled, "Not at all, sir. You let me win."

"Wasn't about winning, Wash."

A movement of his thumb again, gently easing her desire to protest, something in his voice resonating in her head. He's staring so intently that she nearly dips her head; holds the contact because the idea of shirking back, even from him, is appalling. Amber to meet blue, "You always say that when you lose?"

"Haven't lost enough to find out," she smiles at the feigned arrogance, the lightness of his tone. Allows herself, at least for the moment, to enjoy his company, to revel in the physical, the feel of him. Much as with Lucas there is no gray with Nathaniel; reservation, perhaps, but no gray. The Commander is silent after that, content to watch her, expression repeating the words he had only just vocalized.

Memories or not, she's still Washington.

Voice soft, quite in the still night air, leans back, a bit of hair falling over her shoulders, needing to know the answer more desperately then her neutral tone suggests, "Did you doubt me?"

His response comes quickly, without hesitation, a squeeze to her hips, "Never once, Wash. Not once."

A small smile curves her lips, a nod of her head. She doesn't doubt his words, never could. They're spoken with an almost painful conviction, causes something in the vicinity of her heart to constrict. Never once had he doubted her, not once.

She wishes, more than anything, she could say the same.

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><p><strong>AN**: YES. OH BLESSED BE THE CHEESE MAKERS! It's done and we have…more tension and stuff.

*cough* So yeah. Tension. There's that. :D And a very special thank you to all my lovely fellow BAMF girls. Who listen to my ranting and general oddness and the like, are generally just seven shades of awesome, and help me through my laziness. You know who you are (I hope!) and you know that I love you. *hugs*


	8. Chapter 8: Contact

**A/N:** I know what you're thinking:_ dear god! She updated! The story hasn't been abandoned!_ _Absolute madness!_ Nah, I'm gonna finish this. I just got distracted…by sexy things and other rampaging plot dinosaurs. Hopefully this chapter is enough to make up for the long time between updates. A very sincere, heartfelt, desperate thank you to Inu for her handholding this chapter. Legit, girl, couldn't have done this without you.

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><p><strong>Chapter: Contact<strong>

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><p>Two weeks back in Terra Nova sees her settled with almost comical ease back into her prior routine ( a thing Elisabeth objects to and Alicia heartily insists upon; she is tired of being treated like an invalid, wants her life back), behaving almost as if nothing ever happened. Mark is willing to assist her, Jim is there to offer a hand (as loathe as she is to rely on either of them) and there are few problems. Despite his own objections, Taylor does not deny her request, allows her to return to the position she once held.<p>

Occasionally, she doesn't wonder if he simply did so to better facilitate his spying.

The Commander is not an overly patient man, she is aware of this, memories or not. He is a tactician, however, and knows the value of waiting, however at odds it may be with his personal feelings. She's sees it in his eyes as he moves past her, in his face when she reports to him; a desire to give her the time she needs, the space she needs, constantly at war with his nature. Taylor pushes, it's simply his way. Pushes till the subject is near their breaking point, till they nearly crack and then relents, offers a moments calm before reapplying the pressure. It's how he's always been.

That he is resisting this for her benefit is…endearing, after its own fashion. His frustration with her is undoubtedly growing (she cannot or will not remember, and neither offers much comfort) but he does not take that final step, is somehow unwilling to break the fragile truce they have established.

And so he simply watches.

She feels his eyes on her now, as she moves through a simple combat routine with Reynolds, tracing her improvements, the holes still present in her defenses. It's an almost physical force, weighing each of her maneuvers, every sweep of her leg. Invasive, after a fashion, but never unwelcome; in stark contrast to his sons gaze, Nathaniel's is never a burden, simply a presence in the back of her mind, a comforting weight offering balance.

Mark catches her fist, offers her a small smile as he moves through with his counter attack. The kid's good (one of her best, her mind supplies, the thought so heavily infused with pride that it's momentarily jarring) but he isn't a match for her, hasn't seen battle like she has. A sweep of her leg takes his out from under him, the young man landing in a heap. The grin he favors her with is almost blinding in its intensity (and there is pride there too; his Alicia is back, still able to set him on his ass despite it all) and she can't help her chuckle, shakes her head at the absurdity of it all. Never in her life (she thinks) has she had another student so grateful to have his ass handed to him. The Lieutenant laughs, extends her hand.

"Thank you, ma'am."

He takes a steadying breath, climbs to his feet, brushing the dirt off the back of his fatigues. It's still early yet, the streets largely empty, the air terribly still. A few stray soldiers wander the premises, civilians beginning to rouse, prepare the market for the day. She stares out at them, smiles. There's a strange sort of peace to the whole of things, a comfort she wouldn't have expected to take in something so mundane. Mark coughs slightly beside her, draws her attention back to her own endeavor and she favors him with a smirk, gives his shoulder a light shove.

"Do I always beat you so badly, Reynolds?"

"Usually far worse, ma'am," said with no small amount of pride, affection.

The Lieutenant chuckles, moves to exit their little arena, retrieve the water she's set at the far side. She takes a quick sip, offers it to the kid (isn't overly surprised when he refuses). Mark is staring towards Command, gives her shoulder a covert nudge. A barely visible nod of her head to assure him she is aware of their observer, a soft smile to reassure him she doesn't mind.

"He's worried about you."

She arches a brow, at the words and the soft, almost imploring, tone they are spoken in.

"The Commander, I mean. He's worried." When she doesn't reply, he frowns, shifts a little, uncomfortable, "I know he doesn't show it well…" She snorts; fairly difficult to miss someone is worried when they insist on following you everywhere. The young man shrugs, acknowledging this, "But he is worried. And he is trying." So convinced, so determined to make her understand; it's amusing, sometimes, how _desperate _people are to reassure her of their Commander. How desperate they are to validate whatever relationship they used to have (or were presumed to have had). It's a strange thing, one that continues to puzzle her.

This time she simply smiles, reaches out to rest a hand on the soldiers shoulder. The contact seems to relax him at least somewhat, and he straightens, "I know, Mark."

"Of course, ma'am. Just wanted to be certain."

Everyone's determined to make that clear to her.

She throws a glance towards Command; everyone, that is, save for Taylor himself.

No use dwelling on it; she crosses her arms behind her back, deftly changes the subject. No use dwelling on something she has little to no power over, "Alright, Corporal, orders of business for the day." Reynolds gives her a wry sort of grin.

"For you? Requisition orders, requisition orders, requisition orders," ugh. The idea of more paperwork is revolting but there is little for it. With a heavy sigh, she runs a hand through her hair, resigns herself to another day spent behind Taylor's desk (knows she'd rather be out in that jungle, doing something, anything), but there's nothing for it. For now, this is simply her lot in life, irritating as it is.

When she moves, he catches her arm, halts her movement towards Command, "_After_ we get you something to eat." Her scowl is pointedly ignored; his grip on her is rather insubordinate but she is not foolish enough (or bull headed enough) to believe that there is anything hostile in the motion or that he's even acting as one of her soldiers. He's Mark, not Corporal Reynolds; another delicate tug as he pulls her along after him towards the market. When she protests, he laughs, "Doctors order, Lieutenant."

"She won't know if you don't tell her."

"Shame I'm going to tell her then."

For whatever reason, she finds herself laughing, allows him to drag her towards the stalls. It's still early but people are beginning to stir. And as eager as she is to get back to work it's true; she should eat something.

After spending so long with Lucas it's still strange to wander the streets of the colony so freely. There is a peace to it, her mind humming contently. It's home, whether or not she remembers it and there's something soothing that she does not feel like questioning. Regardless of the horrors that have befallen Terra Nova in recent months, it's still something new, something innocent, a liveliness no circumstances can dull. There is something admirable in such a place, and she cannot help but be swept along in its current, with its inhabitant's almost preternatural good cheer.

Though it is place primarily for buying fresh produce, groceries, etc, there are a few stalls in the market that vendor premade meals. It is these the young man leads her towards now. He's dropped the hand on her arm (poor form, for a soldier to behave in such a way with his superior officer) but remains just near enough to alert her to his presence; to warn her that there's a good chance he'll give chase if she runs. She almost shakes her head at the absurdity of it all, the reversal of roles. There was a time, not so long ago, where she had played the chiding, protective, elder sibling. That Mark has fallen into it with such a relish is…amusing.

She arches a brow as he picks a bowl of…something, from a stall. It looks very much like it was at one point alive and the texture is undoubtedly suspect. That it smells palatable is of little concern. Her stomach, hungry though it is, makes a noise of protest at the sight, reassures her it would much rather go without sustenance. Mark edges it nearer to her, "Try it, Lieutenant."

"Thanks, I think I'll stick to something a little less…exotic."

"It used to be your favorite."

'Mark," she gives him a dark look, "You could say that about anything here and I wouldn't be able to argue."

"I…may have been hoping you'd forget that," he holds up his hands in agreement, quickly sputters out a defense, "But I'm not lying. It _was_ one of your favorites." Regardless, she shakes her head, plucks a (considerably safer looking) bowl of fruit from an adjacent stall. While her selection seems to amuse him, he nods, pays for both their meals. When she tries to make for Command _again_, she again finds herself restrained, the same hand lashing out to catch her arm, pulls her back. "Eat and _then _work, Lieutenant."

"I can do both, Reynolds."

"Yeah, that's what I always told _you_. And you know what I got?" The roll of her eyes reminds him that, no, in fact, she does not know. She arches a brow, crosses her arms over her chest as he goes blithely on, leading her to sit on a pair of large rocks. For all his protests, his voice in undoubtedly amused, that same fondness still dancing around the edges, 'Sit down and eat your food like a civilized human being, Reynolds'. God, I think I heard that phrase more than any other the first year I spent in your unit."

Wash throws him a sidelong glance, a soft smile tugging at her features. The kid picks at his food, waits for her to start in on her own before he eats; ever the gentleman. "You think you'd have learned to listen," she plucks an apple from her salad.

"Guess I'm just a slow learner, ma'am," Mark gives her a wide smile, manages to get a forkful of his food, "So, we're gonna sit and then you can go work."

"Is this throwing my own words back at me going to become a habit, Corporal?"

He dips his head, "Only for today, ma'am."

They eat in silence (and she is struck again by how…_content_, she is), watch as citizens go about their lives. Some glance their way, wave, others smile and there is something so very peaceful to the whole of it that it leaves her with the strangest sensation pooling in her gut. Belonging, something like home, silly, idealistic feelings that have no place in her life, but comforting regardless. With a smirk on her face, she reaches over, manages to get a fork full of Reynolds (suspicious) looking food, quickly shoves it in her mouth.

She couldn't tell you how it tastes. She's too busy laughing, first at the surprise written so clearly on his face, then with him as he lapses off into chuckles of his own.

* * *

><p>For better or for worse, she seems to have settled in.<p>

It leaves him with an almost confused feeling, staring after her as she makes her way towards the market with Reynolds. The two have been almost inseparable since her return (and in the kid's absence, Jim is quickly there to take his place), have quickly fallen back into the camaraderie they boasted before her disappearance. It's comforting, after a fashion, that she should have something so stabilizing to rely on, individuals so willing to offer her their support, their comfort. Disconcerting in that, at one time, it had been him who played that role.

It is jealousy and nothing more, he decides, irritated with himself and the depth of the ugly feeling rolling within him, festering in the back of his mind. Jealousy, in that she is so eager to seek out both Shannon and Reynolds and still so pointedly ignores his own company. Will allow her guards to slip in their presence, if only slightly, to convey what she is suffering through; these same wards are quickly steeled in his presence, snap back into place with a force that is almost disconcerting.

It is jealousy, and something like loss, that he feels, none so subtly eats at him. He permits such behavior only at the behest of Doctor Shannon, still insisting they give her time, the space she needs, to make her recovery. It has been two weeks and she shows little sign of improvement.

Taylor's nature is to push, to lead, to conquer, to liberate. He is the Commander, leader of this colony and its unequivocal head, but he cannot deny that he needs his Lieutenant back. Needs _his_ Wash back.

And he will not deny that, more than that, he desires the return of his friend. Misses her to a point that is almost painful, hates seeing the uncertainty in her eyes whenever they happen upon each other.

For better or for worse, however, she is settling in.

The Doc lauds this, smiles to herself in pleasure, assures him all will be well soon. Alicia is, she promises, simply establishing a new identity for herself, attempting to find her place in this world. After she has done such a thing she will undoubtedly recover bits of her memory, likely slowly, over extended periods of time. It will be a grueling process, but she holds no doubts that it's manageable. Though it is initially approached with reservation, displeasure, she eventually suggests allowing the Lieutenant to return to work, shoulder her old responsibilities.

He permits this. And he will not lie; she seems to move through the tasks with the same finesse, the same determination as she ever did. In those moments, she looks very much like the woman he remembers, a content sort of smile playing across her features despite the exhaustion coloring her movements after a long day. It's almost easy to imagine her simply glancing up from her work, favoring him with that wide, fond, smile she'd so often lapsed into when he wandered in to find her working late.

But she'll look up and there will be that poisonous sort of reservation, that caution he cannot seem to do away with. He hates the look of it in her eyes; hates seeing her so uncertain.

Watches her as she snatches a bit of Reynolds meal, then laughs. The sound is more open then he remembers from her (hasn't heard in years, almost since before Somalia), and feels a smile tugging at his lips before he can tamp down on it. It is a moment he has no place in and so he shakes his head, returns inside Command. Settles down at his desk, picks up a requisition form and begins to read.

Booted feet signal an arrival; he looks up to find Shannon standing in the doorway, a form in his hand. The plex is one they traditionally assign to medical, undoubtedly a message from his wife, detailing Wash's readiness to lead patrols again. With a small smile, he beckons him in. The Sheriff glances between the item in his hand and the Commander, shrugs, closes the distance.

"Liz says Wash is ready whenever you want to send her back out."

"You agree with her?"

The younger man pauses, purses his lips, "I think she's making good progress."

"Not what I asked, Shannon." His pause is answer enough. The Commander nods, glances down at the report in front of him. Wash's tests. She's recovered almost completely since her return, mental faculties aside. She is, on paper, and to her unit, fit to lead. He gives the forms a final once over before sliding them to the side.

His Wash is comfortable in the field, prefers it immensely to sitting beside a desk, filling out forms that have little relevance. His Wash is comfortable heading up patrols, leading her unit through the jungle. His Wash wouldn't think twice if offered a choice between the two, regardless of injury, danger or whatever else. It's a step, if a small one, to recovering that woman. A step, a push, towards getting her back.

The Lieutenant steps through the door, a smile still playing about her lips. It falls almost immediately as she takes them in, pauses. She settles into a ready stance, gives him a quick nod. Formalistic as it is, he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips, seeing her there, decked in her trademark blacks and grays, features so determined. His tone is almost fond, "Morning, Wash."

"Good morning, sir."

He rises, walks around to lean on the opposite side of the desk, taps fingers on the glass top. It has her arching a brow (a little amused, he thinks), curious. Gaze drawn to the jungle outside the protection of their gates, back towards the woman still waiting for his command. Another smirk, "How'd you like to stretch your legs OTG, Lieutenant?"

She keeps her features enviably composed but he doesn't miss the pleasure she seems to feel at his words. She flashes him a grateful little smile, nods, "Awaiting your orders, Commander."

He feels Shannon's look, knows the man is questioning him on this, knows he doesn't think she's ready. Maybe she isn't. But it's a step, however small, at getting his Wash back. And he's damn well going to take it.

* * *

><p>"Watch your feet, Dunham!"<p>

The order is called about a half a second too late and the private stumbles over a bit of root that's managed to snake its way over the path. Some of the other kids chuckle at the oversight, Reilly stepping in to offer a supportive arm before he tumbles down. His cheeks flush an incrementing pink as he accepts the assistance, ducks his head slightly before muttering his thanks, "Sorry, ma'am, won't happen again. Wasn't watching where I was going."

"Dunham's never watching where he's going when a certain someone's on point," one of the boys nearly sing-songs, chuckles following in its wake. To her credit, Reilly hardly looks disturbed by the jibes, gives the younger man a pat on the shoulder before trotting up to shadow her superior officer. Wash simply shakes her heads at their antics, shoots a questioning glance over her shoulder. It's all it takes; the perceived severity of the look is enough to silence them on the issue. Each snaps off a quick salute, features adopting a look of concentration as they turn their attention back to their patrol.

It's been remarkably quiet ever since they set out from the gate, everyone in remarkably high spirits. She can't help but smile, hears the heated whispering still going on behind her. For whatever reason, they are inordinately pleased with her return. Each of them, when she happens to catch their gaze, straightens up, eager to look the part of the dedicated soldier she's trained them as. Never once does it dampen the amusement, the pleasure, in their eyes at seeing her back in uniform, back at their head. Some, venturing past their role as subordinates (not that she would ever mind) go so far as to reach out, give her shoulder a pleased squeeze as they exit the convoy. Small things that mean little apart and everything together.

It's a beautiful day (though, when isn't it?), the air warm but not oppressive to the soldier as they cut through the tropical underbrush. There's been hardly a sighting of local wildlife and she allows herself to relax slightly, the feelings of dread pooling in her gut slowly dissipating. The tension in her shoulders loosens ever so slightly and her kids are instantly aware of it. The conversation is suddenly more lively, more vocal, everyone slightly more loose with their expressions. She feels Reilly hang back a step, glance over her shoulder at Dunham (who is still boasting a more pink sort of expression, taking long steps to catch up to his superior).

She adjusts her grip on her rifle, shifts it to rest on her hip. The muscle of her legs burn from the strenuous exercise but she will not deny that it's a welcome one, refreshing, renewing, freeing. Wipes a hand over her brow, reaches for her water, "Alright everyone, form up." They move to encircle her rapidly, skirting a bit closer than strictly necessary (and it amuses her more than it really should), "Meet back here in ten, don't stray far from the group, no unnecessary noise." When no one makes to moves, she shakes her head, chuckling, makes a shooing gesture, "Go on, get out of here."

They do as she orders but not one of them leaves the little glade they've stumbled into. She settles herself down on a comfortable looking log, sips her water contently and watches as they fall into their own private conversations. Reynolds crosses to her immediately, takes a seat at her side. When she arches a brow, he smirks, "We're not usually this clingy if that's what you're wondering."

"Just curious," she smirks, offers him her water for the second time today. This time he accepts, indicates the rest of them with a wide gesture.

"Can't blame them, ma'am. Guzman took over your duties during your absence but," he simply shrugs, as if there's simply something he cannot place, or properly explain. Settles for a lazy grin, "Just wasn't the same without our hardass Lieutenant."

That the rest of the boys are eavesdropping does not surprise her and they give a little cheer at the statement. A young man (Michaels, she thinks) holds up his canteen, "Here, here!"

"Your hardass Lieutenant is going to need to whip you kids back into shape if you don't stop acting so damn happy," she shakes her head, unable to keep the fond note from her tone. She climbs back to her feet, extends a hand to Reynolds before looking them over. One of her men is missing and she arches a brow, glances around quickly. "Where'd Gibson get off to?"

"He's always wandering off, ma'am."

Someone shakes their head, rolls their eyes, "Not _always_, he's just…curious."

"Gonna get himself made into Carno chow one of these days."

Wash holds up a warning hand, "Let's not have that be today, alright? Won't look good if I have to haul one of your asses back to the Commander all mangled on my first day." She holds a hand to her ear, hales the man on her com. When there is no answer, she frowns, shoots Reynolds a glance. Radio silence is rarely a good thing when one is wandering the primeval jungle and the dread in her gut re-intensifies. She gives the kid a nod, expression carefully schooled, tone firm, "Alright, split up. Pairs of two, people, quick sweep; let's find our man. Reynolds with me; Dunham, stay put, radio if he makes it back."

An echo of "yes, ma'am" fills the glade as they break off.

She grips her rifle, eyes carefully scanning the jungle foliage, hears the Corporal moving behind her doing much the same. It becomes painfully clear after five minutes or so that they man they are looking for is nowhere within their section. When her comm. beeps she lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding, "Washington."

"This is Reilly, ma'am. We have Michaels here, he looks a little shaken, but there's nothing wrong with him that I can place."

She hears the young man mutter something that she can't quite make out on the other end, Reilly whispering something back. The older woman adjusts the frequency of her unit, broadcasts to the whole of them, "For those of you that didn't hear, Michaels has been recovered. Head back to the rendezvous point immediately."

Silence, as they do what they're instructed. Silence, almost eerie, as they move back towards Dunham. The jungle seems almost as if it's simply absent, no birds, no insects, nothing. Her senses flare to life, suddenly hyper aware for reasons she cannot place, grip tightening on her rifle instinctively. Something is wrong. Something is very, painfully wrong.

It doesn't take long for her to figure it out.

Gunfire echoes through the still of the afternoon, breaking the sudden calm, a knife cutting cleanly across the supposed peace. The sound of shrieking, inhuman and furious, dancing across the air to meet her ears. She kicks into a run immediately, Reynolds behind her.

"Dunham, report."

Silence, more gunfire. The private's voice meets her ears, undeniably pained, more shrieking, the noise almost deafening, almost drowning him out. The jungle brush tears at her as she moves through it, a branch cutting her cheek as she leaps through the thickening plant life. More gunfire, then a simple, "We've got Slashers, ma'am." And though his tone is calm, she hears the underlying fear, knows the creatures are undoubtedly moving closer, stalking him. Knows what he's feeling, knows the horror, knows the dread now singing over her senses.

"Just hang on, Private. Hold on for me," still running. Almost there, nearly there…

One of the serpentine creature's tears through the underbrush, leaps past her. Barely hears Mark's cry of warning, barely escapes the claws the nick her side, cut through her armor, as the thing keeps moving. Feels fear, cold, sickening in its intensity, flood her as the creature veers, changes course with a speed that ought to be impossible. Horror as the thing roars, the shrill noise assaulting their ears, gunfire as Reynold's unloads. The thing crashes into him, pins the young man beneath furious claws, rending flesh without consideration for where the blows land. His cry of pain is somehow the one thing that penetrates her thoughts.

She's moving before she can think better of it, clubs the damn thing in the head with the butt of her gun. The skin there is too thick for bullets but the blunt force seems to shock it momentarily; it stumbles back, ceases its assault at least momentarily. The Lieutenant moves to stand between the thing and the wounded young man, (somehow still conscious, biting his lips to stay silent through the pain) flashes the creature a dark smile, nothing resembling mirth present there.

She should have known better, she should have been more careful, she should have prevented this.

But she'll be damned if she's going to let her kids pay for her oversight.

The Slasher roars, charges.

The Lieutenant moves with grim determination, moves into the force capable of ending her.

* * *

><p>The return to the colony is chaos. Wash practically leaps from her Rover, is back shouting instructions at the medical teams as they assist her wounded soldiers out of the convoy. Taylor watches her with a near sense of wonder. Bits of her hair have escaped the once immaculate tail she'd bound it back in, dirt and blood smeared over her complexion. The liquid coats her hands, nearly to the elbows, paints her as some dark, macabre warrior, completely in line with her determined expression. She wipes a hand angrily across her face, smears some of the blood pooled near the corners of her lips, amber eyes alight with frustration, a feeling of impotence.<p>

Two of her men are in poor form (Dunham, clutching his side, bleeding despite her handiwork; Reynolds, ugly gashes marring his back, tears all over his torso). She has the young Corporals arm slung over her shoulder, is supporting the majority of his weight as she hauls him towards the approaching med unit. The nurses grab him almost immediately, shoo her away as she attempts to tag along. Elisabeth steps forward, places a restraining hand on her shoulder, practically orders her away.

It leaves the Lieutenant standing by, uselessly, bloodied fists clenching and unclenching at her waist. She's beautiful in that moment, if morbid looking, a caged animal pacing the length of its cage, searching for some escape. The pretty illusion she's built for herself has come crashing down, the ground falling away from under her. She'd been content, she'd been idle and now she's paid for it. Other's have paid the price for her.

She stares after the stretcher, towards her the soldiers of her unit still straggling out of the convoy. Not one of them dares to look at her, not one of them would ever blame her. The eyes she manages to catch are sad, disappointed, but never with her. It's the expression of a child that believes it has somehow distressed a beloved parent, shattered the trust they have so painstakingly earned. She watches as her "children" so eagerly accept the blame for her own failure, her own lapse in awareness. It's the twist of a dagger in her wounded side.

He watches such thoughts run through her head at a pace that is nearly whiplash inducing, watches as she so readily searches for a solution, runs the scenario over in her head. It's always been a weakness of hers (doubles as a strength when carefully monitored); she is incapable of defeat, incapable of accepting such a thing. Runs the skirmish in her head until she can predict a viable alternative to her losses, uses it in preparation for the future; she is incapable of such loses, cannot bear the notion that something like this might befall them again.

Wash takes a step towards the medical compound, stops herself immediately. She can do nothing; can simply wait. Waiting, he is well aware, drives her insane. She will replay it in her head, time after time, look for a way she could have better protected her boys.

And will inevitably reach the same conclusion. She is simply human, cannot predict every occurrence. She is simply human, but she might have saved them if she could simply remember, if she knew, if she had her past life's experience, poise. The saccharine notion that she might function without such a recovery has shattered, left her picking at the frayed remains of her mind again, tugging and tearing and unraveling in a desperate attempt to drag her past closer to her.

In the end she turns, marches towards her housing unit instead. The muscles coil beneath her field armor, dark hair fluttering about her shoulders as the tension pools within her, leaves her steps colored with a tight, measured quality he is not accustomed to seeing in her. Almost on instinct, he moves to follow her.

Shannon steps into his path immediately.

Taylor scowls at the younger man, moves to step around him and finds that path blocked as well. The Sheriff's face is oddly dour, serious. "Something you want to say to me, Shannon?" He does his best to remain calm, is pleased to note that his tone is very nearly cold, the tenors clipped.

"Give her some time, sir. Let her deal with this on her own."

"She's had time, Jim. And this is what's happened," it's unfair, they both know that. She cannot be held directly responsible for the attack, cannot even be held responsible for the injuries sustained. It is simply a catalyst, a new infection in an already festering wound. Shannon scowls at him, and Nathaniel sighs, softens slightly, holds up a pacifying hand, "I only want to talk to her."

The younger man shakes his head, takes an infinitesimal step back, just enough to signify he will allow him to pass if he so chooses. Not enough that he can make it by without contact. Jim reaches out, catches the older man's arm and holds it, "You don't want to talk to her, Taylor. You want to push. Maybe she needs a push, I don't know. Just….tread lightly, alright?"

At any other time, the concern in the other man's voice would be touching. The sheer concern for his friend is impressive, the devotion enviable. At the moment, it's an irritant. He shrugs off the grasps, moves past him. He thinks he hears the Sheriff sigh as he calls out over his shoulder, "You have Command until I report back, Shannon."

He isn't entirely certain what he expects when he approaches her house. The silence he encounters is almost jarring, however, a strange change of pace from the fuming woman he had seen at the gate. He knocks lightly, simply for decorum, before stepping inside. The door isn't locked, isn't even properly closed. Wash is standing at the counter, still clad in her field armor, a bottle of wine open on her counter, a glass held to her lips. She flashes him a dark sort of smile (hideous in its intent, a mockery of a lighter sentiment), over the rim, drains the remnants of the liquid before setting the empty thing down on the counter. She takes a steadying breath, looks as if she's waiting for him to continue.

Taylor crosses his arms in front of him, closes the front door. The click echoes through the room, through the still of the air, a pointed sign that they have somehow crossed some line. That the issues they have both allowed to fester, have shunted to the side in favor of a tenuous alliance have come to the fore. She pours herself another glass of wine, steps around the kitchen island to stand across from him. Still covered in blood, still in disarray, still the picture perfect soldier.

He begins without pretense, tone still collected, still calm, despite his feelings, "What happened out there, Lieutenant?"

"Exactly what it looked like, sir. Slasher attack," she frowns, "I…wasn't prepared. We sustained injuries, put down the resistance and returned. Nothing more, nothing less." A dramatic over simplification, they are both aware. Her eyes bore into him; dare him to challenge her summation of events.

"You're never taken by surprise, Wash."

The woman's eyes narrow at that, suddenly cold, "You mean I _was_ never taken by surprise, sir." She tosses her head, sets her glass down. "I didn't perform to your standards today, Commander. I didn't perform to my own standards today, and for that I apologize, but do not…"

"You can't simply ignore this, Washington." The use of her full name surprises her, posture straightening in shock. In the company of others, it is not uncommon for him to address her by it. Alone, even with her frayed memories, she is aware that he does not refer to her by that. It's always been Wash. That she is suddenly Washington is…worrisome. He takes a step forward, "I've been patient." She arches a brow, crosses arms over her chest (wonders if she's aware just how her posture mirrors his own), "But if your behavior is going to affect the wellbeing of your unit..."

"Today was an isolated instance, sir."

"Lieutenant," this time the formality is intentional. It visibly irks her, the distance, the coldness between them burrowing beneath her skin, digging at her for reasons she cannot but name to. He watches as she runs them through her head, attempts to makes sense of them, smiles at her confusion. Taylor stares at her, "You have the blood of two soldiers on your hands. You could have been fatally injured," tries to ignore the curiosity in her glance at that, ignores the answering pain that flares in his own chest at even vocalizing such a sentiment, "As Commander of this colony, I cannot justify such behavior. Until you come to terms with this, I cannot have you performing your duties OTG."

It pains her. His schooled Lieutenant takes a breath, attempts to muster her calm. She sees it for what it is, a none too subtle attempt to coax her out of the world she's created for herself, comfortable easy, free from the confines of her forgotten past. She nods slowly, stance widens slightly, "Yes, sir."

There's silence as she crosses to her sitting area, settles herself on the couch. With a heavy sigh, she tugs her hair out of its bindings, runs her fingers through it tiredly. Speaks more to her drink then him, voice soft, "If you have questions, sir, ask them." She favors him with an almost sad smile, indicates the chair across from her. Because as desperately as it pains her to have failed her unit (her _kids_, the term still appropriate, even now) it hurts infinitely worse to have failed _him_. It is the one time, the only time, she will actively invite him to push her, to interrogate her, to edge her back into a life she has very little interest in recovering.

It's a strange sort of thing, sitting across from her as a stranger rather than a friend. That this woman wears the face of one so familiar to him, behavior so closely parallels his friend and yet somehow isn't. He offers her a small smile, takes the offered seat. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, "Well, let's start small then. How much do you remember?"

She shrugs, "This and that. It's flashes more than actual memories. My 'education'," she almost spits the word, sips her drink to wash the taste from her tongue, "Dealt more with my early days in the military. With you." Wash heaves a withering sigh, "Almost all my memories are of you, actually."

"Good ones, I hope."

Her laugh is bitter, surprising, "Considering who I had teaching me, I'd think you'd know better." Lucas. He sees the boy's markings, his signature, etched over this woman, the strands of his own twisted recollection interwoven with her own to form some twisted whole.

"I'm sorry, Wash."

Because there's nothing else to say. She nods slowly, sadly, takes another drink. The wine, he knows, is a bitter one, an early vintage from one of their first years in the colony. It's shit, but it's old and sentimental; he'd given it her more as a joke than anything else on the colonies last anniversary, never intending her to drink it. It's suited to her mood at the moment, however, and she's hardly complaining. Her thoughts are dark, undoubtedly, watches as she runs them over and over (her greatest flaw, knows it will one day drive her out of her mind), tries to cling to something, pull some memory to her and cannot.

In the end, she chuckles again, runs a hand through her hair, "That makes two of us, sir." A pause, sets her glass on the table. Amber eyes flick to him, pin him with a glance torn between anger and something else (regret, he thinks, but cannot say for certain), "Do you know what it was like, Taylor? I wanted to defend you, more than anything, I needed you. I _need _you. But every time I looked for you there was nothing. There _is_ nothing," she's growling more than speaking, stands, stance squared as if she expects him to fight her on this.

"Your son," she winces, shakes her head, somehow unable to justify their relation in her head, unable to link the man in front of her with the boy in the Badlands, corrects herself to make it palatable, "Lucas. To have him feeding me lies and no way to disprove them…"

"And do you believe him?"

He watches as every muscle in her body coils, rounds on him in open fury. He can count, on one hand, the number of times he's seen the composed woman surrender her control in such a manner. The words are too close to what she remembers; too close to the poisoned words his son had fed her, nails drug over her frayed grip on the past. Amber eyes are alight with something, frustration (with him, with herself), anger (with him, with herself), and something he's vaguely aware is hurt (solely for him). She sighs, fists resting on her hips, "I didn't know. I _don't_ know." Runs a hand through her hair, closes her eyes. It leaves a streak of blood across her already marred features, shifts from one foot to the other.

Immediately, he stands, eyes narrowing. There it is again; she's stepped back from her issues, taken a step away from whatever is eating at her. It grinds against his awareness, an omnipresent itch; the Wash he knows does not flee from her problems, does not step back for a challenge; this woman is entirely too willing. She sidesteps; she leaves, unwilling to face a truth she may fight unsavory. He takes a step forward (she takes one back), "Seems like a fairly easy decision to make, Lieutenant." She trusts him or she doesn't and there is no middle ground for her to stand on.

"Don't do this, Nathaniel. Please," steeled, less a request and more an order. It's almost enough to make him stop. Her voice is so soft, so tired, her side likely aching (still bleeding into her armor, he notes with no small amount of concern, some irritation). The fire he's become so accustomed to seeing in her is still alive, though banked, waiting, simply waiting, to roar to life. It's as close to pleading as she's ever come, will ever come and it's nearly enough to break him.

He squares his shoulders, blue eyes piercing her. No words; she remembers him well enough to know they've never needed them. Amber to meet blue again, asking him to reconsider, asking her to fight. Another step forward (she holds her ground, bloodied and torn, every bit the warrior he had a hand in crafting), "I asked you a question, Wash." As the Commander, not as Nathaniel, not as her friend, not as whatever she remembers him as being, "Did you believe him?"

Something in her changes. Her eyes burn, her posture steels as she relaxes back into a military stance, squares up to him. It takes one word, very nearly bit off, "_Yes_, sir."

"Explain yourself, Lieutenant."

Funny, his tone barely registers the hurt coursing through him at the admission, the harsh burn that accompanies that one damning word. Yes. He stares at the dark haired creature in front of him, so similar and so foreign, a scar and a salve mixed stitched so seamlessly together. Wash scowls at him, brings hands to rest at the small of her back, stares forward instead of at him, the picture perfect soldier.

Just not _his_ soldier.

"He brought matters to my attention that I had not previously considered, sir," she shakes her head, chuckles bitterly as if there are memories playing through her head even now (unpleasant ones, the twist of her lips pained), "Your sons a lying shit but he's fairly convincing." Staring at him now, gaze unwavering, unmoving, steeled. So much like his Wash, so painfully similar, "What he showed me of my life is distorted at best, but he never spoke without some truth. He manipulated me, I know that. He's screwed with my head, I _know_ that…"

"Wash…"

She doesn't stop, takes another step towards him, the exhaustion on her features replaced with something livid, only highlighted by her almost feral expression, the disarray of her apparel, "But at least he made that clear, sir. I knew what Lucas was doing to me; he made _sure_ I knew. And maybe it's screwed up of me but I prefer your son's head games to whatever the hell it is you're trying here!"

"Wash…"

"I'm tired, Taylor. I'm so goddamn tired of all this shit. I'm tired of looking around my life and seeing nothing. I'm tired of looking at you and feeling one thing and hearing your son's voice slinking about my skull telling me another. I'm tired of hearing all about your goddamn Lieutenant and knowing I'm _not_ her!"

"Lieutenant!" The sharpness of his tone brings her up short. Wash stares at him, jaw squared, daring him to continue. He's pushed; it's in his nature to push, and she's finally braced for him. The space between them seems too great; he closes it, steps nearer to her, too close to her, too near for propriety or formality or even friendship. Fight or flight.

She's his Wash and she'll always fight. Always. The smaller woman stares up at him, proud and defiant, telling him to discredit anything she's just said, tell her she's wrong (doesn't wonder if maybe she's hoping he will; prove her wrong, prove his son wrong). The Lieutenant raises his head, meets his eyes, "You let me die, sir."

More effective than any blow she could have landed; tone almost cold, "I did."

"You left me to die, sir."

Begging him, as close as she can bring herself to come, to prove her wrong, to prove Lucas wrong; he can't. "I did, Lieutenant."

Her laugh is a bitter one, a flippant toss of her head, dark hair falling over her shoulder, her forehead, "Then there we are. Lucas was right." She almost chokes on the words, spits them, "The bastard was right again."

Something in him rages at that and the space between them is closed immediately. The woman's eyes widen, body tensing as though expecting another attack. He intends nothing of the sort. He's furious, frustrated by her determination to remain blind, memories she cannot be held accountable for and his own impotence. He's frustrated by whatever the hell it is he's feeling, by this stranger wearing the woman he loves face, by how quickly she throws herself from hopeful to desperately in denial. Hands clutch her arms, hold her fast. She's furious (every bit as frustrated) but does not move from him, glares in silence.

"He was, Wash, I let you die, I watched you die," the words tear at him, are growled, "And I have lived with that. I've spent these last few months playing that moment in my head like some goddamn clip show; I've watched you die every time I closed my eyes since that night. I watched you die but if you think for one goddamn second that I don't regret it, that I wouldn't have risked my life, or scoured this place looking for you…"

"Don't, Taylor. Don't try that; I'm so tired of…"

"Of what?"

She's looking at him so strangely, so different from the woman he remembers, so openly torn.

Her feelings against his son's words. He moves before he can think better of it, fists a hand in her dark hair, drags her into a kiss. She tenses momentarily before reacting, surging into the embrace, hands moving to clasp his face. Bruising, frustration that should have pushed them past their breaking points long again; there is pain (he tastes blood, knows he's reopened her split lip) there but neither are willing to move away, her nails digging lightly at his scalp as she clutches him to her, teeth moving over his lips. There is a desperation to her movements, as if gasping for breath, clinging to something like hope, a need she will not put name to. His fingers will bruise, will leave marks of purple dotted across her skin; neither is of a mind to care.

She chokes down a bit of air, lips moving against his still. Her mouth opens all too eagerly, his tongue tracing her lower lip, tasting the iron, coloring his own lips crimson. Dueling for presumed dominance, for whatever upper hand they can lay claim to. The Lieutenant arches into him too eagerly, one of his hands trailing down to her waist (carefully avoids the tear in her side), traces her hip, holds her against him. The motion of his thumb over the skin causes her to stiffen, breaks the rhythm they've fallen into. Taylor quickly corrects it, softens things. The frenetic pace is replaced with a slow one, languid movements against her, fingers weaving in her hair. Reassuring, instead of punishing; need and camaraderie instead of accusations.

He barely pulls away from her.

The disparity in their heights is not so great that this is awkward. He rests his forehead against hers, the heat of their mingled breath warming his skin. Her fingers trace the line of his jaw before moving to rest against his neck, thumb brushing delicately over his pulse. His lips quirk up, a sentiment of good humor that never manages to reach his eyes, forced at best, as he brushes a thumb over her cheek, "Don't suppose that jogged anything?"

Wash shakes her head sadly, chuckling as she smiles against his lips. She leans forward almost instinctively to kiss him again, gentle, an almost melancholy element that he never imagined being present in one of the encounters. If this were some fairy tale, the curse would be broken. Her memories would return to her in a flood at the contact, feelings of love and belonging, so many years shared. His sons influence over her would be broken and she'd be his Wash again. But it is a kiss, nothing more, nothing less, one she has been waiting for over the better part of twenty forgotten years. It is a kiss, noting more. She worries his lower lips between her teeth, sucking lightly before pulling away. Shakes her head again, "Can't say it did, sir."

"Should have known…"she arches a brow and he chuckles, brushes a thumb over her hip, "Wash would have hit me for taking such…liberties."

Her chuckle is less bitter, a small smile finally curving her lips. Perhaps it is only in his head, but he wonders if she doesn't lean perhaps a little closer to him, feels her against him, forehead against his, "She wouldn't have." It's softer than she intends, fonder, too many emotions coloring her tone.

He finds himself, if only for selfish reasons, believing her, fingers moving over her skin. Her heat, her presence, is somehow soothing, a reminder that his failure was not permanent. The Lieutenant, to his surprise, does not move away from him. There is an odd expression of peace on her face, a calm he has not seen on her seen her arrival (if he is being honest, since long before her death), a peace. Wash lets out a small sigh. With no small amount of reservation, he takes a small step away from her.

"I should go."

He should. Nothing's changed between them, not really. And he's pushed too far. Another step back.

Wash's arms tighten about his neck, her expression shifting. Nothing much, a subtle pressure that holds him steady. She takes a breath, closes the distance between them again. Meets his eyes, dares him to deny her this, at odds with the gentle nature of her tone, "Don't, Taylor."

"You've said that a lot to me this evening, Lieutenant. Think that foray of yours in the wilderness altered your views of subordinate behavior," there is nothing aggressive in his tone. A simple statement, offered to lighten the mood. She does not release her hold on him, sees her come to some sort of decision (always has been able to read her, can even now). For proprieties sake, he reaches up to take her hands, gently removes them. Her expression very nearly falls, contemplative as he holds them. There is something like confusion in her eyes as he strokes a thumb over her wrist, a glimpse of something he cannot put a name to (or remember seeing so openly) playing briefly across her features. Taylor offers her a grin, a light squeeze to her hand, "You alright?"

She stares at him, surprisingly serious, tries to smiles and cannot manage it, "Just thinking."

"Dangerous sport."

The woman rolls her eyes, shakes her head. She stares at their entwined hands for a long moment, simply says, "I don't want him to be right." Her finger stroking over the back of his hand, idly tracing a scar there, "I don't think he is."

"I can't decide that for you, Wash.'

No, he can't, can he? She smiles, the expression somehow sad. No memories come rushing back to her, nothing to assuage the guilt at so easily forgetting him, her minds near desperation to keep him buried. But there's that expression of peace flitting over her features again. Soft again, "Stay with me." He tilts his head lightly to the side, tries to read her for something. There is no uncertainty in her, no second guesses; nothing but his confident Lieutenant, staring at him with amber eyes, their fire banked but not extinguished.

"That wouldn't be wise," no matter how badly he wants it.

"I'm tired, Nathaniel," she's in no mood to fight, it says. It will never cease to thrill him, the way his name rolls off her tongue, the syllables caressed in a way he's only just beginning to fully appreciate and she's only just remembering. Her thumb over another scar, the raised flesh surprisingly sensitive to her touch. She sighs, "Stay, please."

He sees his friend in that moment, exhausted from fighting battles she never should have endured. Weary but still standing, unwilling to surrender (she'll never surrender; his Wash is simply incapable of it), unwilling to break. Something not unakin to pride swells within him at the sight, a sick sort of hope that she has yet to give in. She's still there, fighting.

Taylor nods, can do nothing else.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Alright. I have to thank a bunch of people now because, let's face it, they're goddesses and I owe them. A sincere thank you to my fellow BAMF girls, especially the lovely ones over on Twitter who endure my near constant whining and griping about this story. You're lovely creatures and I owe this chapter to you. And of course, B!Twin and C!Twin, who are just amazing and constantly keep me fed amazing goodness. xD Thank you, ladies.


	9. Chapter 9: Faith

A/N: Not dead, I swear. Even though it's been a bit since I updated this. ;) I was distracted. By mini-BAMF's and Rosyani and other more interesting things then this story. But the Twitter girls have managed to wrestle this out of me. Thank them. They deserve praise. :D ALRIGHT. TO THE CHAPTER.

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><p><strong>Faith<strong>

* * *

><p>There is a strange feeling of peace lying here, simply sharing his space, his presence enveloping her. It's almost off, almost perfect, almost too readily accepted by her overtired mind as she stirs, coming back to her awareness. It's a slow process, not threatened, allows a smoother, slower transition. Taylor has not disappeared during the night as his son was so very fond of. Remains, one of his arms draped easily over her waist, protective rather than restraining, no note of ownership, simple camaraderie. The Lieutenant turns in his embrace, pauses to simply take him in, curious at the change that's come over him.<p>

He's younger looking, some of the hard lines etched across his skin fading in sleep. It's almost as if the worries of the day cannot follow him past sleeps threshold, permits his to exist as he should have been. A peace that is so very foreign to him during the day. It's surprisingly intimate, nearly makes her shift away (knows she has earned the right to this, that he wouldn't begrudge her of it). Pursing her lips, she edges herself up on an arm, leans over him halfway, the tail of her hair brushing against his shoulder.

He's awake. The soldier is almost preternaturally aware of his surroundings, sleeps almost worrisomely light. The simplest shift in the mattress, in his sleeping companion, should be enough to rouse him. Regardless, he remains unmoving beneath her inspection, permits her sate her curiosity. Head tilted lightly to the side, she reaches out one of her hands. It's a near physical urge that takes her, leads her forward, trailing fingers lightly over the contours of his face. Planes she's mapped to memory years prior, fantasies she'd once indulged about having the freedom to touch him in such a manner suddenly playing out in clarity (robbed of some, but not all, of their pleasure without the context of memory). Thumb over his cheek, brushing aside a stray bit of dirt still clinging stubbornly to his skin, her nail grazing with ghostly lightness down to his lips.

It's only then that he shifts, smiling as she strokes across them, amused at her apparent fascination. Catches her wrist, holding it gently to him, presses a delicate kiss to the tips of her fingers. It's strange, almost confusing in the jumbled mass of her thoughts, the wave of warmth that smooths over her senses, impressive in its clarity. She repeats the motion, his finger curling to stroke the inside of her wrist before releasing her. Makes no motion to restrain her, simply indulges her curiosity.

When she trails lower (over the line of his jaw, down his neck), he chuckles, shifts to better facilitate the contact by turning to rest on his back; blue eyes open, so pale, warm and openly affectionate (wonders that she doesn't quail at such a naked emotion), silently questioning her. Last night is still too fresh in both their thoughts, a raw wound that will require treatment. Not now; simply not now. She shakes her head, asks him to drop it for the time being (give her time; always more time). For once, he's willing to indulge her, blatantly amused, "Good morning to you too, Wash." Watches as she continues her game, nails sweeping over scars exposed by his open collar.

She smiles, "Didn't mean to wake you, sir." It's a lie, they are both aware. Neither questions it.

"Nothing to be sorry about; not the worst way I've woken up."

Not the worst way for either of them, as she's well aware (half starved in the wilderness, in enemy war camps, in prison, half dead, a cadre of other hellish scenarios her mind all too readily summons to the fore (and he's always there, always waiting, just on the edge of thought, to pull her back)). With a soft sigh, she nods, lying back down beside him. Still exhausted, almost emotionally numb, from last night, she allows herself to enjoy this moment of peace, oddly out of character for them. Wash's hands settle on his chest, thumb stroking over his clavicle. The man relaxes into her touch, moves to rest his hands at the small of her back, drawing patterns up her spine, "You alright, Wash?"

It's a strange question, one she never would have expected to hear in the Phoenix camp (not in earnest, at least) but his tone is truthful enough, encouraging her to open herself to him. "I don't know," another brush of her thumb, "I want to be." More temperate than the truth, a middle ground of her choosing, saying little as to her actual feelings.

"Give it time, Wash."

Her chuckle is very nearly bitter, small and starkly out of place in the tenuous peace they have created for themselves, "If you say so, sir."

"You don't give up, Lieutenant," not a doubt in his mind, those pale eyes daring her to challenge him on this (finds she cannot and will not, needs to indulge him if she's to stay sane), a squeeze to her hip, anchoring her there with him (no thoughts, no memories of the past, only this moment of peace), "I know better than to count you out." _You'll come back to me. _

It leaves her staring at him for a long moment, unsure of her response. Being offered such comfort, especially from him, is odd, conflicts with the poison she's been fed. Her innate reaction is to shy away, to deny, to fight, to snarl at him for manipulating her. In such proximity such urges are dulled, subverted, fingers kneading overtired muscles in her back, easing away tension, lulling her back towards a state of relaxation that is nearly foreign. In the end, she can only press more tightly to his side, surrender her reservations in favor of _this_.

It's nearly dawn, the morning light only just beginning to flood through her window. Patrol starts in less than an hour. Every instinct, honed by years of training, danger, tells her she needs to get moving, however desperately her body will protest. When she tries to move, the arm around her waist tightens, pulling her flush against him. The bastard doesn't bother to hide his smirk, looks entirely too pleased with himself as she stares down at him.

"Have to get up, sir…"

It's a weak protest and he responds by giving her another squeeze, "Think your CO won't mind you slacking a bit." Easing her back down to rest against him, chin on his shoulder (too intimate, too familiar, too much of too many different emotions that she will sort out later).

"Sounds like preferential treatment."

"He figures after all that happens, you merit it. And," he purrs, strokes over her hip, promising things she'd rather not consider, half dazed with sleep and conflicting feelings regarding him, "You'll be free to make it up to him later."

"Not now?"

He snorts, "Go back to sleep, woman, too early for me to fight you."

It's an oddly endearing thing, permits the continued wandering of his hands, the arm still wrapped around her (not at all threatening, not restraining, not at all like it was with Lucas); the woman allows her doubts, her reservations, to melt away, if only for this moment. Falls back into a hazy sort of sleeps against his side.

* * *

><p>It's far later when an aggravating sort of trilling from his comm. unit awakens them. Taylor lets out an aggravated grunt, stretching to fetch the device from the bedside table. Voice still gruff from sleep (much needed; the first real time he's allowed himself to indulge in it since her disappearance), "Taylor."<p>

There's a silence on the other end, as if the man is trying to weigh whether or not he wishes to continue. Shannon's voice fills the still morning air, somewhat hesitant (unabashedly amused), "Sorry about the time, Commander. Not trying to interrupt anything…" he trails off suggestively (searching for a denial or conformation, sighs when he is given neither).

"Shannon," said more for Wash's benefit as she stirs back to awareness beside him than anything else.

"Yes, sir."

"This important?"

"Guzman seems to think it is," and the Chief of Security is rarely flippant about such threats, too serious, hardly prone to the Sheriff's flights of fancy. The overly curious man presses again, "Although if I'm interrupting something…"

Wash rolls her eyes, plucks the comm. from his hands, "I can hear you, Shannon, you can drop the leer." Leaves the Commander staring at her, both amused and curious at her easy admission; she simply shrugs. Ultimately, it's only Shannon (and despite his tendency towards teasing, both are aware he will keep whatever he presumes their secret is, perfectly safe).

The younger man chuckles, sounds somewhat embarrassed at being caught in the little game, "Morning, Wash. Sleep well?"

"As well as I ever sleep."

It's as much as he's going to get on the subject (and as much as he wants to know, honestly); he clears his throat, "Sir," Taylor takes the device back from the woman, makes an affirmative sound to motion he continue. Another pause, can practically see the Sheriff running a hand through his hair, "Erm…no disrespect to the Lieutenant but you might want to be alone for this."

Taylor flashes her an apologetic smile (she simply shrugs, watches him with a detachment obviously feigned) as he moves from the bed. "Alright, Shannon." He doesn't bother taking a seat, knows better than to expect good news. "Go on. What's so important?"

"Outpost 7 reported signs of activity near their southern perimeter." When there's no response, the Sheriff continues onwards, sighing (fairly obvious his night of sleep had been disturbed at best, running things in Taylor's absence), "It was dismissed as a glitch in the system. It showed up again around four. And again more an hour ago."

"Not a predator?"

"We thought it might be but the chances of them doubling back so often…"

"Phoenix, then."

Jim sighs again, "We can't confirm it, but that's looking most likely." Another moment of silence before Shannon ventures to speak, "I can have Reynolds' prepare a scout detail…"

"Do it," but it's more weary then determined, overly tired of a war that never should have marred the innocence of this world. He runs a hand over his face, attempting to wipe away the exhaustion still clinging to him. "I want us ready within the hour, Shannon."

"You got it, Commander." There's a click as the younger man closes the channel, leaves him alone with his thoughts. Purses his lips as he slides the device back into his pocket before beginning to cast about for any items he might forget. His shoes, his jacket...

The Lieutenant clears her throat behind him, signaling her presence (occasionally, he forgets how damn quiet she can be when she sets her mind to it. Not quite to his level but close enough).

Wash is leaning against the frame of the door, a brow arched as he ceases his pacing. A smile would do him little good (she'd know he was lying, would judge him for it) so he frowns instead, sighing. "Feel like holding up the fort today, Lieutenant?" It has the intended effect; her arms cross over her chest, eyes narrowing when he doesn't immediately elaborate.

"Sir?"

Instantly suspicious, the good will he's managed to accrue suffering some wear in the face of her doubts. He shakes his head, "One of our outposts reported Phoenix activity in the area. It's an investigation, nothing more." And she's too damn close to the problem to merit being a part of this (as if he isn't).

"Sir…"

Taylor holds up a hand, silencing her protests. It is one of the rare times his words are an absolute, a true order and the tone is marked by her immediately. The woman looks almost hurt by the abruptness, frowns at him, "You're going to stay here, Wash." _Going to stay safe_; the words are overly familiar to both of them. She's visibly stricken, suffers a case of déjà vu. Whether or not she can remember, it sends her senses singing, outraged by the comment. She's going to stay here; stay safe.

_Watch over the colony while he's away. Her tags shoved hastily in his hands…He needs her here._

For what good that had done before.

She crosses her arms behind her back, lips pursing as she watches him gather his things. Doesn't remember but knows enough to realize she hates those particular words, hates being separated from him. It's an almost panicking urge that takes her at the notion (ignores the fact that he's feeling little better about it, not terribly eager to let her out of his sight). It's well hidden beneath a carefully schooled veneer of frustration (know her well enough to pick out the traces amidst her apparent indifference). "You can't do that, sir."

"Don't think you have much of a say in this, Wash."

It's meant as the final word of their argument. For a moment, he almost believes she will abide by it. But the woman simply squares her jaw, taking steps to enter the room. Hair in disarray, eyes burning, she looks halfway feral (will never admit it's one of his favorite looks of hers), arms crossed over her chest. Replies with just as much finality….

"You're taking me with you."

There is no room in her tone for debate. Somehow it's impossible to keep the smile off his face when he turns. The doubt has been removed from her, her stance determined, amber eyes dark as they fix on him, daring him to defy her. It's directly insubordinate (not that he can bring himself to care); it's poor form. Wash takes a step nearer to him, searches his face for his answer (still knows him well enough to find it).

The Lieutenant quirks a brow, reaches out to rest her hand over his. In the grand scheme of things, it is a relatively simple gesture, one shared countless times between all manners of individuals. From strangers to lovers; there is nothing inherently telling in it. For them, it is different. She takes the initiative, pushes back against the barriers so deeply entrenched in her mind, fingers twining with his. Almost fascinated as she brushes her thumb over the back of his, every bit of her steeled as she meets his gaze, repeats herself, "I'm coming with you."

She doesn't remember what happened to her. Doesn't remember how she'd spoken much the same words, with the same determination, here, not so long before. Does not remember his answer (no; he'd needed her to stay behind; needed her to guard the colony. He'd needed her safe…) or the repercussions of it (does not know that he's spent every night since playing that scenario over in his head, wondering how differently it might have ended if he'd simply listened). It's a part of her, memories she is not aware of offering a warning, clawing at her frayed grasp of the past.

In his heart, he doesn't believe she's ready to leave the colony. She's a danger to herself and her unit. Regardless, he finds himself nodding, unable to do anything else beneath the strength of her gaze. For one of the first times since her return he's able to see her. What she once was, the soldier, the woman, _his_ Wash, standing proud and defiant in front of him.

She's isn't ready to go back out there. Needs time to recover (to remember); needs to regain that confidence. The fire in her eyes licking at his skin, reminds him of the various times in their life where he'd dared to ignore her (stood when she said sit, refused to let her treat him, refused to listen, to hear her). Never once has ignoring her worked out to his advantage. Not once.

He can count their separations on one hand and can name no pleasant memory among them. They'd separated in Somalia (she'd legally been declared dead, fatally injured; lost his wife, his son), they'd been separated during their recovering (depression for both), during their jaunt through the portal (near madness for him; hair pulling worry for her), and again during the siege of the colony (near madness and her death).

The Commander stares at their joined hands, the smallest of gestures that means infinitely more between them. Bespeaks the trust that they have only just begun to reestablish (and the doubts he has yet to exorcise from her). Taylor allows an indulgent smile to turn his lips, squeezes her hand (ignores the satisfied feeling that warms him when she holds the pressure).

She isn't ready, but he cannot deny his satisfaction at seeing a part of her returned to him. The familiar fire is burning in those dark eyes; tone warm, another brush of his thumb over her palm as he nods, blue eyes sparkling in the morning light, "Alright."

"Alright?" She inclines her head to the side, almost as if him so readily granting her request is suspicious.

Nods again (notes the hint of a smile beginning to turn her features, better reassured, time doing its job), openly amused by her determination, "Of course; still a little skittish about letting you out of my sight, Wash."

The woman chuckles as if it's simply an off handed comment, something she can shrug off. The effect is more profound than that, however, warms him as he watches her relax slightly, some of the tension leaving the bunched muscles in her shoulders. The Lieutenant offers him a final nod, releases him (with some hesitation) before dismissing herself. Taking her with him, granting her request, as small as both things seem independently, speak volumes when combined.

He trusts her.

Regardless of what's happened, how his son has affected her, he trusts her.

It directly contrasts with the lies the boy has poisoned her with. Is enough to start her questioning the tripe she's been force fed over the months. Taylor watches her with no small amount of satisfaction, something like pride. That she's pulling herself back together after all that's happened.

She isn't whole but it hardly means she's broken.

Less than an hour later, he's standing in Command, making his final preparations. Glances outside and catches sight of her. One of the Privates offers her a respectful salute as she passes, reminds her of the rank she once held (still holds, whether she's willing to admit to being that woman or not). To his pleasant surprise, she salutes back, looks the picture perfect soldier he'd trained so many years prior. She dispenses a curt order, smiles to herself when the kid hastily makes to follow her command.

It brings an answering, echoing, expression to his own face, soft in the morning light as she makes her way across the pavilion, looking more herself by the day. The man turns away from the window, begins to prepare with a focus that has come to define him.

Is somehow unable to shake the image of her, perfect and alive and so very much like her old self, from his mind; for the first time since her arrival, he allows himself to feel a surge of hope for her.

And perhaps it's selfish, but he permits himself to hope for them.

* * *

><p>"Reilly, take point."<p>

The Corporal does not respond with more than a curt nod, making to follow through with the order. Regardless of whether or not she can remember training the young woman, Wash allows herself to feel something like pride at the professionalism.

She's trained them well, damn perfect, as they move through the jungle.

Regardless of the previous evening's debacle, her unit still welcomes her back with a warmth she'd deem comical if she didn't find it so endearing. Her kids are noticeably hesitant at first (blame themselves, blame the situation, never once even consider blaming her); when it's obvious she holds no ill will towards them their expressions brighten visibly. Despite the presence of their Commander, it is obvious to both where their devotion ultimately lies. They respect the man and would follow any of his orders without question. Wash is afforded the same respect, the same near reverence. The difference, however, lies in their eyes.

The soldier's watch their Commander, this is true. But their gaze does not follow him, does not carefully weigh each of his actions, his emotions. Wash is scrutinized, every one of them ready to jump to her assistance at a moment's notice. It's an amusing turn of events, especially when considering what she knows of her past life. She'd been stoic, perhaps slightly stand-offish and rather demanding of her unit. It changes nothing (perhaps amplifies their feelings). There is affection in their eyes, openly on display. Respect inflamed by love.

She doesn't bother to hide her smirk when Taylor raises a brow at their supposed antics (standing a bit closer than propriety dictates, intent on protecting her until she orders otherwise). The man edges nearer to her, parting a swath in her unofficial bodyguards. He's practically flush against her side before he bends slightly to speak, barely a whisper in her ear, entirely too amused, "God forbid this place cross you, Wash."

The Lieutenant shrugs, one of her hands coming to rest on the butt of her rifle, relaxed, at peace, despite the potential danger of the situation. Smiles softly as her gaze flicks over the young soldier's (still observing her out of the corners of their eyes, attempting to appear indifferent), "They're good kids, sir."

"No," spoken so easily; her eyes narrow at that (suspicious at his grin, the lazy posture as he gives her arm a pat), "They're the best. You don't settle for anything less than that, Lieutenant."

In the grand scheme of things, it is a relatively simple comment; there's little thought behind it and there is, ultimately, no reason for it to affect her so.

Somehow, that knowledge cannot prevent the soft smile that turns her lips (her kids brightening at the sight of it). She reaches over to give his arm a squeeze, moving to take point.

* * *

><p>The clearing looks like something out of a nightmare. The good cheer they've been nurturing for the duration of the morning dies quickly on their lips, replaced with a thick shroud of dread. Familiar uniformed bodies are strewn about the place, horribly torn. One's face (throat) mangled, guts torn and strewn about the once idyllic landscape. Rather than the revulsion that seems to sweep through the younger members of their group, she feels an odd calm descend upon her. Medical indifference to the morbid sight.<p>

The Lieutenant feels the concerned glance of her Commander before she begins to move, the step he instinctively takes towards her, knows (whether he is aware of it or not) that's he's concerned over how this will affect her. Endearing, but hardly necessary; she makes an idle gesture with her hand, waving him off. She is aware enough of her past self; there is no way for her to move but forward.

She kneels near the nearest mercenary (knew his name once, has long since forgotten). One of his legs has been picked clean but he's otherwise intact. Frowns, turning him carefully; despite the state of decay that's already set in, the medic would not put his time of death much earlier than this morning, the smell of blood, heavy iron, still thick, coloring the air. The lack of larger predators in the area seems to support this theory. Hears Dunham choke back his gag reflex as she unfastens the field armor, gore caking her hands as she smooths them over the man's ribs. Frowns again. The muscle mass has faded away almost entirely, leaving him too thin. Little more than a skeleton beneath her touch; the woman purses her lips, gently inclines his head to the side. Dark bags under his eyes, skin stretched over high cheek bones, gaunt and sickly looking.

Too thin; the signs of malnourishment are clear, dark bruises marring his skin.

He's only been dead since this morning but the decay has been going on for far longer. It's entirely likely he wouldn't have made it much longer anyway. Taylor arches a brow, silently inquiring what's she's on about; she moves to the side of another. The same symptoms, heavily malnourished.

"Everything alright, Wash?"

The woman shrugs, easing back to rest on the balls of her feet, a frown still tugging at her expression, "Just fine, sir." Even if she doesn't mean it; Wash accepts the hand extended to her, allows him to pull her back up. Retains the closeness, sighing, voice low, "These men were near death well before the wildlife got to them, sir." She indicates one of the mercenaries nearest to them, his once perfectly tailored uniform hanging off him, materially pooling about his prone figure. "I'd say more than half of them were suffering malnutrition…"

His gaze never wavers, "Was it like this when you were there…?"

"No, sir."

There's little he can do but nod. The man moves from her to kneel near one of the bodies, frowns at the sorry state they're in. Less for the individuals, she knows, and more for the sullying of their world. More for the innocence they've sacrificed in pursuit of this war, seeing such proud men (thugs) set so low in favor of his own son's ambitions. He stands, blue eyes bright, something like anger tinged with determination, "What's my son doing up in those hills, Wash?"

Arms crossed behind her back, slipping back into soldier rather than friend, "I couldn't tell you, sir."

It's not an answer, not really (but he's become accustomed to her half response, hasn't he?) and his gaze makes it clear that this is not the last he'll ask on the matter. Looks like he's going to push; it's only the tell tale sound of a sonic pistol charging that silences him.

"We got live ones over here…" Reilly's voice is surprisingly soft over the comm. channel. "Ease up, kid, just take it easy, alright?"

"Just….just go, alright? Just go…"

"We're trying to help you…" The Corporal is calm, voice soothing. Wash moves to find her, the Commander on her heels. It takes only a moment to find her, a few yards away through the underbrush. A group of five or so (Sixers) individuals; while they likewise appear in bad shape at least three of them are breathing. Shallow, ragged, gasps but alive regardless. One of them is still standing, swaying badly on unsteady legs, the pistol leveled at the Corporal. The moment they enter the enclosure, his attention shifts.

William.

The Sixer boy, the closest thing she'd had to a friend in that place, alive, if not well, in front of her. But he doesn't appear to see her, gaze focused only on the man behind her. It seems as if the only thing in his line of sight. "Don't come any closer!" A snarl, an obvious threat, tone dripping with a familiar hatred, the kind only the younger Taylor can inspire in his underlings. It tears at her heart.

"William?"

The kid stares at her, eyes unfocused and half mad. Even still, he can't bring himself to level the weapon at her. Her voice is a soothing thing, one he remembers even through the haze cloaking his thoughts, a beacon calling to him through the darkness. Green eyes focus less on her and more on her general direction, too thin and swaying dangerously, "Ma'am…?"

She nods, holding out her hand to him, "That's right, Will, it's me; it's me…"

"Lucas said they took you…" Something horrible flashes in those eyes, twisted and rankling across his already frayed grip on reality. The small mouth curls back in a snarl, the already too thin, lanky figure now almost skeletal as his shaking grasp turns the gun towards her Commander, "That _he_ took you."

"I left, Will," repeats his name, taking slow steps towards the boy. There's a power in names, she cannot deny this. Every usage seems to send a bolt of clarity lancing through the child. Green eyes darting between her and the older man, still so calm, collected, placid, in the face of his own potential death. A hand to calm her unit, each of them ready to intervene; this is for her to solve.

It occurs to her, she could let Taylor die. It would be comparatively simple. If she truly doubts him, wishes freedom from him, it's possible now. But she takes that step into the line of fire, leaves the gun trained on her instead (sees the boy tense and feels Nathaniel coil behind her, ready to tear her away). The kid lets out a pathetic near whimper, brow creasing. Unable to justify her behavior with the lies he's been fed (the parallel's to her own situation are neither missed nor appreciated).

"I left…"

Another whimper, unable to understand, openly hurt, "Why….?"

"The same reason you left," it's almost whispered, gentle as she takes steps towards him. Brings the barrel closer to her, to the point where it's fairly obvious it's her (and her alone) that he's threatening. It makes his aim waver slightly, suddenly looking so much more exhausted. "It's going to be alright, Will. You're going to come back with us, alright…."

He shakes his head, runs a hand through his matted hair, gestures wildly at the man behind her, "I can't, ma'am…"

"Just give me the gun, Will…"

"He hurt you…"

"Will…."

"Ma'am, he _killed_ you…"

The wash of calm, of absolute conviction, that floods her is impressive, nearly steals her breath away. There can be no doubt, no debate, only reassurance in the face of its strength. Her tone does not waver, never breaks, never pauses, as she shakes her head, fire dancing in those amber eyes, "No, William, he didn't. He never would." Never would kill her, hurt her, whatever hell else the little bastard had tried to feed her. There had been truth in his words, this she does not doubt, but in this regard she is aware of the lie.

He'd never hurt her. He's proven as much in their time together.

The boy frowns, looks openly torn. Taylor shifts behind her, blue eyes eerily pale, burning with some strange light (Reynolds will write it off as concern; Reilly as frustration; Dunham as something considerably less likely and considerably more flowery). The young Sixer simply nods, unable to dispute the woman any longer, chokes on a breath and hands over the weapon. She tosses it harmlessly aside, stepping forward to catch him as he sags, "Reynolds, give me a hand here."

Wash gives the boy a reassuring smile as he fades off, those green eyes finally sliding shut as he tumbles into a blearily stake of unconsciousness. Something like guilt sliding over her consciousness as she plays his words over in her head (worse since she'd left…things she could have done to prevent this, all painted in startling clarity in front of her) as she watches Reynolds' carry him back to the Rover.

Feels Taylor's eyes on her, carefully weighing each of her movements, searching for something she isn't entirely aware of. The small smile, utterly exhausted, is not enough to placate him, the strange fire only licking at her, searing her. Shoulders straighten, arches a brow, dares him to speak his thoughts, say what he wants from her.

Defiance, her old strength, earns her a familiar smirk, a simple smirk. It isn't the last she's heard of this, she isn't stupid enough to believe that, but he's willing to oblige her this once, let it drop. The man turns to the rest of those assembled, "Let's pack it up people. Get the wounded in the truck; it's back to the colony."

There is no outward reaction when his fingers brush hers as he passes; a silent reassurance before they slide back inside their Rover. There is no reaction when she hooks her forefinger about his absently, the briefest of touches before they separate.

* * *

><p>"So tell me how we got here again?"<p>

The stoic woman's reserved mask slips somewhat as her Commander practically throws himself out of the vehicle, flippantly, casually, suggesting she take the wheel. It leaves her lurching across the Rover, desperately attempting to level them out as their speed plummets, sways from the absence of its driver.

Wash is fairly certain this is neither prudent nor particularly safe. The man currently halfway out the door doesn't seem to pay it any mind, simply chuckles to himself, at her (as if _she's_ the odd one), "Distraction, Wash. Gotta get your people back to the colony somehow."

"We couldn't have just waited it out?"

"No fun in that, Lieutenant."

She repeats the phrase to herself, shaking her head at the insanity of it all. The Carno behind them roars. The dinosaur, she would like to point out, was minding its own damn business before Taylor got this into his head. It's most certainly not worried about the rest of the convoy moving into the colony, she'll give him that. Still, she can't say she appreciates the abrupt shift from peace to chaos (and how seamlessly he seems to flit between such states).

The great predator roars, smashing its head against the passenger side of the vehicle. Tips them briefly to the side (accelerates through it; she's never been one to forfeit momentum). The metal creaks in protest as she forces the Rover past its limits, puts some much needed distance between the creature and themselves.

The unexpected motion nearly sends him reeling, barely able to retain his hold on the thing. He lets out an aggravated grunt, turning to favor her with a small glare as she instinctively reaches for him, fingers fisting in his belt. It's effective enough and she manages to keep him from falling (wouldn't be the first time her driving sent him sprawling, and the notion brings with it an amusement she cannot tamp down on), releases him almost immediately after, needing her extra hand to level them out. His voice is a little more faint, a yell carried to her by the wind whipping by them, emotions painted for her in stark clarity across their comms. The rest of their unit is tied to the channel and she thinks she hears a few laughing, knows Shannon is shaking his head at their supposed "antics."

"You trying to kill me, Wash?" It's the most goddamn insane thing in the world. The man is nearly laughing despite the danger in the situation, his amusement only amplified by her white-knuckled grip on the wheel. She reaches up to grab the back of his field armor before jerking their vehicle in a breakneck turn. His laugh reaches her ears (insufferable, _insane_ man) as she levels out, the thundering feet behind them drawing nearer.

Her answer is remarkably detached as she focuses on the road in front of them, "You'd know if I was, sir."

She doesn't have to see his face to see his smirk. It should irritate her, it _does_ irritate her, a feeling only exacerbated by the answering expression turning her own lips. For whatever insane, _impossible_, reason, she's enjoying this. Releases her hold on him to turn back to the road.

There'd been a time where she was exceptional at this. Still is, whether she remembers it or not.

"Sleeping down there, Wash? Let's go!"

The woman grins to herself, "Yes, sir." The carno is gaining on them, this is true. If they maintain their speed it is entirely likely they'll be overtaken. Common sense says they ought to accelerate. Everything says they run, get their asses out of Dodge. "Hold on, Commander." He turns enough to favor her with a questioning glance (knows her well enough to ascertain what she's doing, tightens his hold on the vehicle enough that she almost chuckles). Wash slams on the brakes, turning through it, uses their momentum to swing them around at a pace that's nearly whiplash enduring. This time, her CO's laughter is not imagined (his Wash is back).

Throws the thing back into drive and floors it, straight at the damn things legs. The great predator almost appears to give them a double take, unable to justify the comparatively small vehicle suddenly barreling towards it. It lets out an aggravated squawk, attempting to shift out of the way. They're huge, they're fast, but they're not particularly mobile. The Carno howls in outrage as it's legs give out beneath it, falling in an ungainly heap beside the vehicle. It struggles to get back to its feet (ineffectively) only for Taylor to peg it with a warning bolt from the sonic rifle. Usually simply an irritant, now a reminder of what its prey is capable of.

The thing growls but does not make a second attempt to rise. Taylor smacks a pleased hand down on the hood of the vehicle. She shifts, retains her hold on the wheel while sliding back over towards her side of the vehicle. He favors her with an impossibly wide smile as he slides back in, as if in conspiracy, victorious. He clasps her shoulder, "Just like old times, Wash."

"If you say so, sir," but he indifference doesn't manage to mute his satisfaction. And for the life of her, she can't bring herself to feel anything but pride over this. Allows herself a tired sort of chuckle, running a hand through her dark hair.

The man is goddamn insane (and she's forced to face the fact that she'd follow him anywhere, regardless).

* * *

><p>"Not a difficult question, son. Just need you to answer a few things for me before we get you settled in," nothing threatening in his tone; Will remains watching him suspiciously, not touching the tray of food in front of him. Better than he's likely had in years; the young Sixer throws her a glance, silently inquires whether or not this is safe. With a small smile, she nods. It's noted with an amused curiosity by the Commander.<p>

It's perhaps six hours or so after their return to the colony that Elisabeth allows them to visit the Sixer in his little room in Medical. Nothing seriously wrong with him, just a tad on the malnourished side, hungry, weak. Easily fixed with dietary adjustments and rest; the plate in of fruit in front of him is a step in that direction, though he seems loathe to eat them, the stories regarding Terra Novan treachery still too fresh in his mind. Wash shifts from her position across from him as he spears another unfortunate bit of fruit, still silent.

Taylor had wanted to wait until the next morning to question the kid, give him time to rest, ease into his new surroundings. In a clear reversal of roles, she'd insisted on this push. Moving now. She doesn't doubt that the only reason he'd been willing to oblige her is some desperate rationalization that there are parallels between herself and the boy. Issues they are repressing, trust, regarding the Commander of the colony.

Perhaps he's right.

Another smile, indicates the food again, "It's alright, Will."

"Don't think I trust him, ma'am…" muttered around a mouthful of fruit.

She nearly laughs at that, shakes her head (understands the sentiment entirely too well), hides it behind a purse of her lips, "You trust me, don't you?" His head snaps up, almost affronted by the suggestion that he might feel otherwise; the woman holds up a pacifying hand, "Go ahead and answer, Will."

While still notably hesitant, he's willing to oblige, if only at her request. The young Sixer finishes his mouthful of food, "Things got bad after the Lieutenant left, sir. Lucas…." He can only shake his head, fingers moving absently over the table. He scrapes at a nonexistent fleck of dirt marring the surface, sighing to himself, "So much worse."

"He was looking for a portal out there…" the Lieutenant mumbles, shifting.

That seems, for whatever reason, to catch Taylor's attention. He hones in on it, blue eyes suddenly more alert. Takes a step towards the boy (an instant shift in their young guests disposition, cautious again, wary); it is noted by the soldier. A step back, flicks his attention to Wash instead, "Has he found it?"

She nods slowly, "He'd just stumbled on it before I…left." It is worrisome, undoubtedly, but she cannot remember precisely why such a thing should trouble him so. The collected man crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. Doesn't interrupt this time as Will turns back to his food; the boy mutters to himself.

"See why you left. Much better here…"

"Is food that hard to manage?"

He frowns, "Too busy working on the portal to hunt and the Badlands are scarce as it is. Once he gets it working we'll never have to worry again." But there's a hint of doubt in those green eyes, a promise too good to ever be true, anything more than a fantasy. Another sigh, a tired smile in her direction, "So we work." Back to his dinner, digging in with enviable aplomb. Now that she's given him the go ahead his reservations have faded away to nothing, welcoming the treatment, the superior rations.

Without thinking she leans against the far wall, arms coming to rest over her abdomen (unconsciously mirrors her superior officer, a perfect replicate). While things had been tense in the camp during her tenure there, it is obvious things have devolved. Lucas' sanity, his single minded drive, is undoubtedly to blame. That the soldiers continue to follow him in the face of all that is…strange; they'd never shown him an particular regard. And while it is true they have nowhere else to go, she refuses to believe that an individual like Mira would not strike back out on her own.

Hope is a powerful force and whatever is on the other side of that portal must be impressive indeed to bind them so fully to him. Still, her eyes narrow, focus on him, "What does Mira think of all this?"

"Hates it," he coughs on a particularly large bite. Waits before speaking again, "Been evacuating as many of us as she can," but he frowns again, looking so miserably sad, those green eyes sparkling in that sallow, too thin, face. "Not that there are many of us left to evacuate."

It's in no way an accusation, nothing of the sort. But she feels herself wince at the words even if there's no reason for it. Their lives had never been her responsibility. Their well being had never been her concern. But the idea that any have suffered at the hands of that insufferable little bastard (the way she'd suffered) is intolerable. She hadn't caused it, hadn't helped him, hadn't anything…

But there's something like guilt regardless. For leaving (for running, irrational as the notion is); for not doing something, anything, to stop him; amber eyes fix on the boy, so content, eating the rest of his dinner. Already lanky when she'd been there, a damn skeleton now; things had been worse. Things had gotten worse.

It hadn't been her fault but there's still something like guilt, the horrible sensation always called to the fore in reference to the younger Taylor. She should have done more.

She should have killed him. Could have killed him and didn't.

It's a sobering thought, her mind instantly rushing to complete the scenario, running through what might have happened if she'd have followed through with her initial plan. The lives that could have been saved, etc, etc, etc. A thousand different facets she could never plan for, can never fully understand, and tries to map regardless.

It leaves her feeling exhausted. Taylor doesn't reach over to her but he knows. He sees. And he'll push, prod her until she shares her feelings (and she'll cave, all too eager to vent her frustrations). For now, she buries such things with everything else she's keeping down, a horrible pile of doubts and reservations she will not allow herself to work out. Not now (always sometime later).

There's a moment of silence as he finishes, pushes the empty tray away from him. The Commander flashes his warmest smile (and this does seem to earn him some good will, a wobbly one in return), "Think you've been in here long enough for one day, son. You remember anything else about that camp however…" Spreads his arms wide, shrugs; it's clear enough and the Sixer nods. "Good boy. Now, the Lieutenant and I are going to step outside. I'll be sending someone in to show you where you'll be saying."

"Yes, sir."

The formality earns him another smile. Wash waves idly as she passes.

For whatever reason, the kid stands. It takes visible effort, his body still weak, swaying dangerously as he takes steps towards her. For whatever reason, he practically collapses against her, arms latching about her torso with all the strength he has left in his (as if validating she's still real, not another hallucination). "Missed you, ma'am."

It's trite and cliché and somehow all that needs saying.

Lieutenant Washington gives him a squeeze before following after her superior.

* * *

><p>He gives her two hours before he goes looking for her. Enough time for her to settle in, relax at least a little. Two hours. Enough for him to get the Sixer a bunk in the barracks (temporary, just a place holder before they find something more permanent), consult with Elisabeth on the fate of rest of their guests (three will live; the other two are too far gone).<p>

Somehow, he isn't surprised to find her at home again. Guilt, for whatever reason, has become a core part of her being, the propensity towards martyring herself somehow amplified by her death and subsequent return. She's left her door open, likely expecting him (comforting that she's welcoming him back into her space). Two glasses at the counter this time, one for him the other securely in her grasp. Whiskey this time (strange to see her with it when she's feeling bitter; more often it's her light hearted drink), the bitter wine replaced beneath her counter.

"We got your friend settled in."

She nods, flashes him a thankful smile, however tired it is, "He's a good kid." Had been the closest thing she had to a confidant in the Phoenix camp. The much is obvious as she strokes a finger over the rim of her glass. The woman frowns, "Should have taken him with me."

Guilt.

The man closes some of the distance between them, recognizes immediately that pressing her will hardly be appreciated. She has no desire for his touch, his presence. It's nothing more than a desire to berate herself, at least momentarily. Takes the drink instead, finishes it in silence, allows her to work through the issue in her head, lips pursed. She tosses her head, growling to herself, "I was so damn worried about getting out of there that I didn't think about anything else, anyone else…"

More silence as she shifts from one foot to the other, faraway. Guilt and anger, seamlessly blended, playing across the planes of her lovely features. Playing her supposed "failure" (it's human, not a failure, an inability to divine something beyond her power) over and over her head. It's an indulgence, plain and simple, a self doubt she hadn't allowed herself to entertain in her previous life. He can merely watch as she plays painful memories across the stage in her mind. She shakes her head again, flashes him a miserable look (wonders if he's ever hated a look so much as that one), "I could have killed him."

It's an abrupt admission, one that leaves him staring momentarily. No question as to whom she's referring. Those amber eyes pin him with a wild look, absolute hatred, almost as if she's been cornered by some unknowable creature. Another step towards her, reaching out a hand; he counts it a small victory when she does not shirk back, permits him to rest it on her shoulder. "You did what was human, Wash." Had escaped, still distanced enough from her past self to choose self preservation over ending another's life.

"No, Taylor. No, I did what a goddamn coward would do. I walked out of that damn camp as if nothing had happened, like I could just forget," she's snarling again (better her rage then the self pitying that is so foreign to her). White knuckled grasp on her tumbler, fuming to herself. Hates feeling so helps, hates regretting things she can no longer change, running her failure on loop in her head. Any attempt to convince her otherwise will only compound the problem. Voice surprisingly soft, even and collected despite the fury in her eyes, "What would your Lieutenant have done, sir?" Doesn't allow him to answer, sighs, "I'd say she wouldn't have let the bastard live."

"You had no way of knowing what he was going to do, Wash."

"I felt it, sir. I didn't remember him but I _knew_," hand through her hair. She's spoken of her time with his son fleetingly at best and as such, it's difficult to gauge the extent of their relationship. Another shake of her head, as if the simple gesture can clear aside whatever unpleasant thoughts haunt her (resolves to ask her about them in the morning, order her if he must), "I should have killed him."

"Lieutenant," she stares at him, comes up short at the sharpness of his tone, fingers biting at her shoulder, drawing her forcibly from her memories back to him. Blue eyes to meet amber, equally determined, burning in the evening light, "I don't pretend to know what happened out there. Don't figure I need to know; it's your business. But you are not responsible for this. For this, for before, for Somalia, for any other damn thing you feel like martyring yourself for," so close to her, almost forehead to forehead; no fight, focused only on him, lips pursed in a thin, tight, line. Almost a glare and almost something else as she listens, as he vents, "Is that in any way unclear, Wash?"

The woman stares again, something flashing across her face, gone as quickly as its come. Something too similar to her memories, different in the one manner that counts; Nathaniel builds up, Lucas tears down. Pointedly at odds with whatever stories he's spun for her, whatever events she's restructured her life around. Something clicks into place (not all of it, but enough to count as a victory) in her head.

Not a memory, but a feeling, a realization of something she's refused to come to terms with.

Wash growls, surging towards him, arms snapping from her sides to twine about his neck, drops her tumbler (and is absently aware of it shattering on the floor). Echoes of their previous embrace but not colored by the same emotions. It is no longer punishing, no rage as she moves against him, simply curious, inquisitive. As if touching him for the first time. She slows but doesn't move away from him.

It's almost as if she's back with him. It feels like his Wash; the woman he's come to know over the years. For the moment, she's returned to him. Almost on instinct, his hands move to rest on her waist, thumb over her hip, tracing a familiar circular pattern over the delicate skin there. Still tastes of sadness but not of resignation and there's something beautiful in that.

His Lieutenant is a woman of action. Once decided, she moves to carry out her decisions, conquer whatever she's set her mind on. And she's decided on this, on him. Whatever her doubts, her reservations (knows they are still present, can taste them in the remnants of their hesitation), she's chosen this. She's chosen _him_.

It's too soon for this.

Hands sliding down to hook in his belt, pushing him back towards the sofa. Difficult to fight her (no desire to fight her), tugging her nearer as she straddles him, moving to undo his shirt; teeth over his lower lip, chuckling to herself as she shifts to press more tightly to him. With her dark hair tickling his chest, surrounded by the woman he loves, having her so near, it would be the simplest thing in the world, simply surrendering to her.

He wants her; he'd be insane not to. She wants him; she's too lost to care about her decision.

It's near physical pain, loss, as he catches her hands, stills their movements, holding them pinned against him, smiling almost sadly against her lips. She pulls back, frowning, confused by the apparent change in him. Leans in to catch him again; a slower joining, robbed of the frenetic pace of before.

"You'd regret it…" barely a breathe, hardly a protest, as he tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear.

"I won't…" She won't.

Perhaps it's some misguided chivalry. Perhaps he's simply waited so long that giving her another few days to further decide herself seems inconsequential. He shifts her, brings her to sit across his lap. It's too delicate for her. The independent woman arches an amused brow, indulging him, arms still draped around his neck. A squeeze to her thigh; a wordless promise composed of only one word.

Soon; soon but not now.

Wash leans her forehead against his, humming lightly. Her voice breaks the silence, soft, curious, as her thumb swipes over his shoulder (almost like the peace of their morning, rare and well earned in the chaos of their lives), "Tell me about myself?"

A strange question; he chuckles, nodding. "Any requests?"

"There must have been some positive moments…."

There's a subtle note of pleading to it. Give her something worth remembering because Lucas sure as hell hadn't. It seemed in keeping with the boy's unique approach to things. Remind her of the bad; turn her, while denying her the good. Another nod.

For all the darkness in their life, they have had more pleasant moments than most are privileged to. The benefit of burning so brightly, catapulting oneself from one extreme to the other. Her twenty first birthday (they'd practically kidnapped the poor girl; she'd given Stephens a black eye that the Corporal had bragged about for the rest of the month); finding her sitting in the African sun with Ayani, both drunk as a skunk, laughing to themselves over nothing in particular. The day she'd agreed to come here with him (set aside their self pitying, thrown themselves into work and their friendship). The moment she'd found him after one hundred and eighteen days of separation (she'd stared at him, laughed at the image presented to her, a textbook caveman; he'd simply stared at her, stunned, worried she'd disappear on him again). Watching a sunrise with her over the completed colony, able to relax for the first time in years.

They've had more good moments than they have any right to. There are a thousand he could pluck at random, regale her with, deal with those doubts.

In the end, he simply smiles at her, arms tightening around her waist as she relaxes against him.

In the end, he chooses to tell her how she'd saved his life (and when she laughs and asks which time he means, Taylor can't help but chuckle). Because whatever her doubts, whatever blocks remain between her and her memories, he's confident of one thing.

His Wash is in there. His Wash is here with him, whether she remembers it or not.

* * *

><p>Sky: I'm going to finish this. I swear. I will. But legit. My Bamfette's I thank you for harping on me to finish this. NOW LIFT YOUR SMUT EMBARGOS, DAMN IT. :D<p> 


	10. Chapter 10: Fated

**A/N:** Next chapter, finally here. Twitter girls and their magical ways, getting me to write this abomination. I'm thinking there's only one or two chapters to go after this one though so...going to power through this shizz. READ ON.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter: Fated<strong>

* * *

><p>If there is some plane between life and whatever comes after it, some state of limbo, Mira believes she has found it. There is no purpose in this place, no way to move forward if it does not suit the whims of the Taylor boy. Weeks have passed with no hint of progress. The Sixer woman has grown tired of staring at the desert stretched above before her, the walls of the canyon behind her. She trails a hand over the surface (worn smooth by time and the wind whipping thrown the narrow ravine) as she moves solely on instinct and memory.<p>

She's been down this same path a thousand times. Every time it is the same sight that greets her. Though she knows better each time sees something like disappointment pooling in her gut, the sentiment only compounded by failure after failure. She will emerge into a small room, those thin walls giving way to a wider area. There will be stars above her, illuminating the equations Lucas has been painstakingly etching in the stone. Each is written with meticulous care, a thing in stark contrast with the almost frenetic bent of his mind.

Failure after failure has seen the slow decay of his sanity accelerated. The boy jumps from half formed thought to half formed thought, clutching at every idea and following none. His moods are volatile at the very best constantly tempered with a sort of insidious lunacy. It lurks just beneath the surface of those green eyes, searching for some excuse, any excuse, to release that pent up frustration. A child turned loose one too many times, given too much responsibility, unable to justify his own mistakes and lashing out to compensate.

The proud woman rankles at the prospect of remaining subservient to such a boy.

And therein lies her torment, she supposes, the genesis of her limbo. There is no life for her in the jungle, no hope in the great messiah of Terra Nova. There is only this, clinging to the rapidly decaying notion that this boy (the enemy of her enemy) can still deliver. That there is some way for her to get back, to go home; nothing else matters. She clings to hope and memory and somehow that is enough to sustain her.

It is whispered in her head, a soothing mantra, as she crosses that invisible threshold into his domain. She is hardly a coward but something about the place unsettles her. The markings all across the once perfectly smooth walls stand as a testament to the decay of his once brilliant (if unsettled) mind.

It is not a prospect she needs set in front of her; doesn't need to see how far one is capable of falling.

The air is different today and he is not present, isn't waiting for her, ready to snarl some new instruction. There is nothing but the stray tables, drawings cast haphazardly about in a state of chaos only he can pretend to understand. Mira takes a deep breath, easing her frustrations away, and takes another step forward into his den.

"Lucas…"

Her voice echoes about the walls of the enclosure, drifting back to her, layered and eerie. There is a path down the far side of the place (leads lower, down into the earth) but she has never had the urge to follow it. He certainly never would have permitted her. Instinct (which she has learned not to ignore over the years) tells her that's where she'll find him. Her brain urges her to turn around (logic has done her little favors in this primeval world). For better or worse her feet are leading her forward.

The earth here has been cleared away recently (by her people, by the remains of the Phoenix group, all entirely unwillingly to remain), rocks shifted to make room form a roughly hewn stairway. The portal is down there. Should be down there if his calculations are correct even if they've met with little success at the moment. She expects to find only darkness, the boy etching things in the wall.

It's surprise or horror that takes her as she rounds the corner, reaching the bottom of the path. For a moment, she can only remain terrifyingly still, staring (he's done it, he's done it, and she cannot for the life of her decide how that affects her). Blues and purples flare, spark light a solar flare outwards before bending back inwards towards its core. For a moment, the thing is calm, not unlike the portal near Terra Nova. It is a greater reflection of a lesser incarnation, raw power that she can't hope to understand.

There is Lucas, standing in front of it, small in the face of such the thing, figure thrown into stark relief. "Lucas…" so far away, barely a whisper as she comes nearer (is drawn nearer, some unseen force pulling her forward).

The young man flashes an absent grin over his shoulder, staring at her but not quite seeing. There is no anger that she has followed him down to his little sanctum, only pride. His voice is not his own when he speaks, something caught between fascination, adoration and madness, "It's so much more than I could have hoped." The tone is nearly reverent as he takes another step closer, more alive than she's seen him since he sent the Lieutenant away. He reaches absently into his pockets, draws out a sheet of his hastily scribbled equations, comparing them to the raw energy in front of him (she doesn't pretend to understand the connection).

"It's a portal, Lucas." It's nothing more and nothing less, the wild energy licking outwards in seemingly random patterns, reflecting blues and purples. Pretty but nothing out of the ordinary, greater than what's she accustomed to and nothing more. What matters is he's finally got it working. What matters is she's one step closer to home (one step closer to justifying the evils she's committed).

While he turns there is no anger or irritation across his handsome features. Only a patronizing sort of look, the corners of his lips curving upwards in dark amusement, as if curious (or pitying) how she might be so naïve. In the end, her comment is simply ignored. He turns back towards the thing, "It's beautiful." The young (boy) man reaches out a hand to stroke the almost glass like surface, stopping just short of contact.

It sends a flare of energy out towards him, enough to make him take a step back. He stares at his hand as if it's been burned, turns it this way and that. That faraway tone again, "I want two volunteers, Mira."

No explanation. "What for?"

"Does it matter?" He frowns at her, "Get them."

Get them. Just get them. As if she's something he can control and command (and she will admit, in the past, he has but his sway over her has decayed as greatly as his sanity). For a long moment, she simply stares (expects him to round on her, lash out). He never so much as turns, scribbling at that sheet of paper, awe written clearly over his features. Her instincts tell her to leave, to get out of here before that door is closed behind her, before some, any, chance of return is lost to her. Walk out of here and don't look back, leave him to his hole.

And for the first time in years, Mira ignores her instincts (as desperately as she loathes this she will continue to play along; will find some way to make amends when she's back with her daughter). Two "volunteers" (from their already dwindling populace) is a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

* * *

><p>She comes back to the world as she always does these days. It floods back in on her, first in hazy shapes, and then hues of gray. The colors follow more slowly, constantly lagging behind. It is an unsettling sensation, a reminder of the world she is no longer a part of. Of less pleasant awakenings on a cave floor, drugs flooding through her system. Such things are hardly forgotten and she finds herself searching for familiar green eyes in the shadows of her bedroom.<p>

They are nowhere in her waking world (only occasionally her dreams); it is blue staring up at her now, idly concerned as she returns to her senses. Taylor will brush fingers over her spine trail them down to rest over the tattoo emblazoned across her lower back, rest his hand there.

It's a familiar motion, one Lucas had favored. It had symbolized his control over her, the ties that bound them together in the past. With Nathaniel it is nothing of the sort.

She had told him of the tattoos origin a week prior and he'd simply shrugged (it was in the past and there's little one can do about the past; no reason for either of them to fret). The Phoenix suited her and the design was an attractive one (he reacts with mercy, forgiveness, where his son would have sworn he'd feel guilt, betrayal at her having been so marked). He brushes a finger over it lightly again, not controlling, never controlling, simply offering something resembling comfort. His hand will inevitably fold over the design, a gentle reminder that this is her rebirth. That those shades of gray she awakens to are temporary, the memories plaguing her sleep hardly things she must confront alone.

In those moments, when she is not quite herself, it is the one thing she recognizes. That whatever reservations still lurk in the corners of her mind, he is a constant force for the positive. He builds up where his son tears down.

The woman permits Taylor to lead her back down, rests her chin on his chest, accepting the offered comfort. Gray awaits her behind her eyes, gray and a pair of green eyes that refuse to leave her. Open to blue, close to green, and the pattern repeats itself.

Washington finds herself in an impossible middle ground, unable to entirely tear herself free of the tendrils wrapped too tightly about her heart. She feels their falsity, knows the boy has fed her lies. She knows she trusts the man in her arms. She knows these things as fact.

But it doesn't change the itching sensation in the back of her thoughts, a cloying memory that will not be repressed. As long as it is there, she exists in an odd state of limbo. Tied to the boy despite realizing his lies; wanting to become a part of this world despite living a life that is not entirely hers. She finds herself hopelessly caught.

Before, she would have no answer for such a situation. After these past few weeks however…

Progress is slow but it's progress, regardless. Wash slowly feels her old confidence returning to her. There is no flash of light, no wild epiphany. The images in her head are still foggy but there is a dull comfort in being here, in being with him. The doubts in her head are eroded. Taylor paints her life for her over the course of a month. In those moments, curled beside him on the couch, it's clearer than anything how she could have come to love him.

He's animated, a fire dancing in those blue eyes, as he goes about his story, gently smoothing the rough corners of her memories. The words are important, yes, but it's the mannerism that truly astounds her. He presents fact much as Lucas had done. But where the boy had used them to twist the truth, had shown her a life dark, hopeless, had set her as victim, Nathaniel paints her as a fighter. Some of it is exaggeration (as every good story must be) but at the core is truth laced seamlessly with affection. Taylor sees her as something beautiful, strength and pride, loyalty. She is something to admire, something worthy of devotion.

His stories are of hope. Of the time spent at the others side; the friends she's had, the times she's saved him. The life Taylor ascribes to her is every bit as harsh, yes, but there is a silver lining she would never trade. And while those memories are still foreign to her (as if they have occurred to another woman wearing her face), she does not doubt their validity. She does not doubt _him_.

She's smiles more these days, content with the life she has, with the memories that hang life a gauze over her senses. There is a shadow lingering in her subconscious, guilt, but it is no longer so pressing. They are ignored in favor of developing her new life. Without ever considering it, she falls easily back into her old tasks.

She exists in a state of limbo, but it is not something she will be caught in eternally. Not if she fights. Wash hums delicately to herself, closes her eyes (is met with familiar gray). More and more often in her dreams, however, the green eyes are noticeably absent. There's only the feel of Nathaniel's hand resting low on her back, gently severing her from those poisonous roots, reassuring her that she can be free of those doubts if she so wishes.

Wash will be free of him. She will move on and she will live. The decision is reached and upheld with such finality that she cannot help but smile to herself.

This life is hers and she will be free of that boy.

* * *

><p>"He's out of his damn mind."<p>

Carter is back to pacing, the field medic only stopping occasionally to send her a dark glance. The man does not approve of their situation or her tenuous alliance. Before it was something he could tolerate. Now that the boy is so unpredictable he is having trouble justifying their time here. He runs a hand through short hair, forces himself to take a seat across from her.

She has no answer to give him, no reassurance. There are only half formed excuses that he will understand but not accept (he is, whether he will admit to it or not, more noble than her, cannot justify this loss of life for a goal he barely understands), too flimsy too offer any real justification.

"He's our way home," but it sounds tired even to her own ears. They've made a home here and there's little to return to (only her daughter and that is enough) in that dying world. It's shallow and not enough to validate this. Not enough to validate the sacrifice of her people (some, as many as she can, she sends away, others are not so lucky).

Carter doesn't reply to that, his silence saying everything. While her friend nods, he does not approve. It is loyalty to her more than anything else that stays him.

The Sixer leader runs a tired hand through her hair, the situation having aged her immeasurably. The lack of proper nourishment (too busy, always too busy), the lack of sleep, this _place_, everything has somehow dovetailed into this. Loathing mixed seamlessly with need (has to make it back, can't go back now, the price she's paid is too high and she will not turn back).

He does not approve and this gnaws at her more than she will admit, the already tenuous ties binding her to the Taylor boy fraying with time and ever successive failure (can't find the way to get them back, get them home). One day, those strands binding her up with snap. One day memory will not be enough to sustain her.

For today, she can only ignore her friend's disappointed expression. She blankets herself with memory, sends some of her people away. And leads a less fortunate pair down to Lucas.

* * *

><p>There is a marked changed in the woman as the weeks go by. It's as if she's finally come into her own, accepted her place in this world. The Wash he used to know shines through more and more frequently, some of her old confidence returning to her. More and more, she is the woman she was.<p>

The man finds himself smiling as he watches her drill her unit. No matter how hard she presses them they seem incapable of repressing their satisfaction, the novelty of her return having yet to wear off. She is precisely where she belongs in such moments. Sometimes she'll catch him staring, that odd expression on his face.

And where once she would shirk away, confused by the sentiment there, now she offers him the hint of a smile, her lips just barely quirking up near the corners. It's a small change that somehow means the world between the two of them. There are still doubts in her mind, he sees them painted in striking clarity but she is willing to push through them. She is willing to trust him. It has him smiling again, somehow content in their progress.

It is a joy tempered somewhat by the vague threat still hanging over their world, the humming in his senses that reminds him everything is not quite right. The Sixer boy's testimony still hangs over him like a shroud, a pointed reminder of his own failings. That his son is still out there, still alive and well, that this is his own doing. He could not take that final step. He had not chased after the boy.

And they are paying for it now. This peace is temporary, nothing more.

He shakes his head, staring at the plex set in front of him. New reports from their outposts; most are fairly routine, show little more than the local wildlife in the area. The ones further south, nearer to the Badland's report the occasional oddity but that is expected. He finds his gaze lingering on these things, attempting to piece together the genesis of their frustrations, find some solution to this problem.

Finds that only one offers a permanent solution; it has him running a tired hand through his hair, shaking his head.

The man has grown tired of war; it has haunted his steps for the greater part of his life. Death has been a constant companion over the years; this place was to symbolize his parting from it. And if he closes his eyes, it's almost possible to paint a picture in his head where this future is still attainable. Where he can grow old(er) with Wash, where that life can be put behind them.

But he is not so foolish as to believe that is achievable with his son left to roam free. He is not so idealistic as to believe that threat will simply disappear, that the boy's overwhelming hatred will simply fade one morning, leaving him changed. And he is not so hopeful as to think any conclusion will be reached between them without violence.

Sooner or later, Lucas will tire of hiding in his hills. He will find what he's looking for. And on that day, there is no debating one undeniable truth. Only one of them will walk away. The boy will not see reason, will accept no offer of redemption. It tears at his heart but he is not foolish enough to try and convince himself otherwise. He son is lost to him. As long as he lives, there will be no peace in their world, no future for either Wash or himself. They will continue in this awkward state of limbo, skirting around one another, neither taking the requisite final step to achieve their happiness.

Until that day, there will be nothing more than hints of smiles, the occasional brush of her fingers over his, her head tucked beneath his chin as she sleeps beside him. Until that day, both will live with that hint of doubt gnawing at the corner of their mind.

He turns his attention back to the plex, categorizing the disturbances on their borders (Sixers, if his instincts are correct), distracts himself from that truth.

Because even as he longs for that day, he finds himself dreading it.

* * *

><p>Lucas is frowning when she returns (she's grown to hate those stairs, hate the decent down into this place), sighs, pacing like some kind of caged animal. The boy gestures wildly to the portal, pulling at his hair as he moves. At her halfway worried expression he can only offer a curt, "It's different." He swings wildly back, changing his course with a haste the is almost whiplash inducing, striding towards the desk they've moved down here for him (covered again in hastily sketched equations, notes).<p>

She approaches him as she might one of the predators in her jungle, "How?"

"The specifics won't matter to you. Just know that is."

"Can it get us home, home?" Because that is the only thing that matters; that is the only thing that can justify this.

It's a horrifying thing that turns his features, a grin positively unhinged, as his madness somehow bleeds away. It leaves him startlingly calm, those green eyes twinkling in the unearthly light of the room. One word that somehow manages to send her senses reeling, "No." He smiles, "It's so much more than that." No. No. No. It's all she hears, all she can focus on as he begins to move, the movements almost serpentine as he steps from shadow to shadow, somehow at home with them, the light breaking across his handsome features.

No. No. No. No way home, nothing at all. Weeks of hopes come crashing down in one simple word.

"You said it would take us home."

"I was wrong," a flippant shrug as that explains it all away. He's back to smiling, closing the distance between them (a step forward to match her step back). "It's more than home, it's more than anything I could have hoped for." He's out of his damn mind. He's out of his damn mind and she somehow cannot bring herself to justify this (the threads fray, straining under the weight of his revelation).

Lucas clasps a friendly arm around the shoulder of the first "volunteer," leading him towards the portal. It's idle curiosity (morbid and horrible) that stays her hand, prevents her from acting. Her instincts tell her to leave, to finally take that finally step, to cut those remaining ties between them. The young man's voice is little more than a purr, perfectly in tune with the low, electrical, hum of the portal, silky, smoothing over her senses like a caress (overly intimate, unearned and undesired), "It's not tethered, you see, it's not like our portal, one portal to one definite time stream, one definitive universe. It's more than that."

His grasp on the man tightens, that altogether too toothy smile turning his features again. Haunting and wicked and beyond mad as they draw nearer to that infernal thing (hell, she's in hell, not limbo). "It has no concept of time," nearer, "No one world or stream. And," he gives the man a shove.

Mira stares in mute horror as the man disappears behind the veil. It's different (she doesn't know how) from the pilgrimages, different from the portal that led them hear in every way that counts. There is no certainly on the other side of that glass, there is nothing but the unknown. She's moving before she can think better of it, reaching out to catch the back of the man's shirt, something, anything. Lucas manages to catch her around the waist, his grip vice like, somehow hideously strong as he keeps her from plunging through after his victim.

Images flash on the other side of that thing, first one landscape and then another, cycling at random. Some look familiar, some are entirely alien but one thing is constant. The lost man is nowhere to be seen. Lucas smiles against her hair, nothing more than a satisfied whisper as he leans against her, "No return."

The young man takes a deep breath, somehow strikingly sane despite it all (or perhaps she's simply joined him insanity; it's difficult to tell now), "You see, I can hold the portal open but now its shut. Without something tethering it to us it always shuts." The smile that curves his lips is a grim thing, staring through her but not at her as his fingers come to clutch the back of her neck, "And I can't find that stream again; it's always cycling and I can't find that one again. And I can't take us home. But if I can find the right world…if I can tether it…"

"It's dangerous, Lucas," He does not need access to another world and its resources. She watches as schemes of petty revenge, of marching back to Terra Nova and raising it to the ground flash behind his eyes. It's dangerous and insane and she cannot justify it.

The Taylor boy only chuckles, as if her protest is a small thing, inconsequential, "All things are, Mira. It's only a simple mind that allows itself to be cowed by such things." The fingers at her neck relax before pulling away entirely, his presence removed from her. Serpentine again, back to sliding in and out of the shadows, back to his drawings and etchings, half mad ramblings she doesn't pretend to understand. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have real work to do. There is a world out there that has what we need, Mira. I just have to find it."

He just has to find it. And when he does, she holds no doubts that they will regret it. They are not going home (there is only revenge in his head). The frayed bands holding to him are severed in one quick stroke. There is nothing holding her here. There is nothing binding her to him.

And there is nothing to justify her continued service. The Sixer reaches for her comm., "Carter?" There is silence on the other end of the line though she knows he's listening. Just waiting, hoping, she will say what she should have months previously. She finished climbing the stairs, emerges into the ravine. With a final glance behind her, she makes her decision.

"Get your ass to Terra Nova. We aren't staying here."

For the first time in a long while, she feels him grin, "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

><p>Acting Commander was never a title she was comfortable with. That has not changed now as she subtly paces in the pavilion, hands on her hip. Waiting, just waiting, for the man (Nathaniel) to return; without thinking she pauses briefly at the side of her companion, shifts from one foot to the other, rests her hands on her hips.<p>

Elisabeth gives her shoulder a delicate nudge, the expression tugging at her features oddly fond. And while the hint of worry continues to dance around her eyes, she reaches out to take the other woman's arm. The good doctor gives a light squeeze, forcing her to still her incessant pacing. Wash frowns but makes no move to extricate herself from the grasp, forces her muscles to relax under the small, restraining, hand. The effort is noted by her friend, rewarded with a small smile.

There's another moment of silence, both women left staring out towards the horizon, searching for some sign of their partner's return. Neither Shannon nor Taylor has radioed in since they departed the previous morning (arrogant bastards, absolutely intent on making them worry). Something in the back of her mind assures her this is nothing out of the ordinary, that it should not disturb her as it does. She's been here before, the feeling of déjà-vu entirely well earned over the years. Still, she flicks a stray bang angrily out of her eyes, stares out towards the jungle as if she can divine his location through sheer will alone (hates being separated from him, should be at his side).

Elisabeth squeezes again, throwing her a sideways glance, "Do you know I've stood here no less than a hundred times with you or the Commander?" There is no outward sign that the other woman is listening; the doctor continues blithely on, never looking at her companion gaze transfixed on the jungle. Her tone drops slightly, as if in conspiracy, blatantly amused, "I'm still not entirely certain which one of you is more fretful."

"I don't fret…"

The doctor chuckles, "Of course not, Lieutenant." The pat to her arm is patronizing at best, a signal that while she is willing to drop the conversation she does not strictly believe her.

Fitting, as Wash doesn't believe herself.

It's a relief almost physical when their Rover crests the horizon, leaving a trail of dirt in its wake. The speed is lazy, a gentle reassurance that everything is well, that they are not injured, that the situation is not pressing. The vehicle comes to a smooth stop in the pavilion.

And just like that, the weight is lifted.

Elisabeth flashes her a soft smile, gives her hand a gentle squeeze before moving to catch her mate. It leaves Wash to her own devices, more hesitant as she moves through a scene she has repeated no less than a thousand times. Propriety and experience tell her how to react. Her movements are almost by rote, crossing to his side of the Rover. She will offer her assistance and he will swat her aside. She will smile and the expression will be caught somewhere between real pleasure and exhausted relief.

The man emerges from the Rover absolutely covered in filth. She is certainly not looking her very best but the sweat is little in comparison to the mud caked over his features, seeping in through the plates of his armor. Shannon is little better (looks entirely too pleased with himself, all things considered).

Taylor offers her a quick smirk before gesturing to one of the nearby soldiers. He throws a quick not to the back of the vehicle where Shannon is helping out a familiar figure. The man is familiar, throws her a quick smile. Nathaniel favors him with a look she doesn't quite understand before turning to the young soldiers.

"Get him to the brig."

Her brow furrows in concern, as they drag the man away, "Carter?" The Sixer is one of the last people she would expect to find here. More than that, he appears to put up little to no fight as they lead him away. It is suspicious, out of character for what she remembers for the industrious, stubborn man. If anything, he looks slightly relieved at being back within the colony gates. Something is not right.

Taylor nods, wincing as a muscle in his neck protests the jerky movement, "Caught him making his way through the jungle. Said he had a message from Mira." The final phrase is practically grunted as he rolls his shoulders, attempting to alleviate the irritating sting in his side. The field medic can't help but frown at his grunt of discomfort. One of the plates of his armor has shifted to dig at the flesh beneath. She reaches over to adjust it only for him to catch her hand, "It's fine, Wash." His smile is slightly forced as he leads her hand away.

"Sir…"

It plays out precisely as she remembers it, fits the patterns they've fallen into over the years perfectly. He absently bats her questing hand away, turns his attention back on Shannon immediately, "Back here at 0600, Shannon. Let him wait overnight." The Sherriff nods, outwardly relieved to have been granted some time with his family before returning to work. The Lieutenant and Commander stand in companionable silence until the majority of those gathered have departed. Only then does he offer her that exhausted smile again.

He tilts his head to the side, attempts to adjust his armor, "You got anything to drink, Wash?"

"Yes, sir," and when she moves to assist him this time he does not resist, slinging his arm easily over her shoulder, wincing as she adjusts for his weight.

"Your place it is then."

* * *

><p>While she does present him with a tumbler she frowns the moment he attempts to take a seat, "Didn't peg you as being so touchy about dirt, Wash."<p>

The woman scowls at him, indicating his side, blood trickling through to layers of his field armor, "It's not the dirt I have a problem with."

"This?" he shakes his head, smirking at her, "Just a scratch, nothing for you to get fussy over." They both know for a fact it is more than enough to set her off. With sigh, she indicates he settle himself on the sofa. The woman disappears for a few moment before returning with the medical kit, the soft expression previously gracing her features replaced with an almost cool detachment. It's a look she's worn a thousand times, one he's become infinitely fond of.

There is no hint of attraction, anything besides medical interest as he draws the heavy material of the field armor over his head. His shirt follows suit in rapid succession, knowing better than to resist her when she's in such a mood. At the skin exposed to her, Wash only scowls.

He's been bleeding into his armor for the better part of the morning and the area, a patch of skin just above his hip, trailing around to this back, is hopelessly caked in gore in various stages of drying. The blood is mixed with dirt, the two forming an almost paste like substance above the furiously red skin. The early signs of infection are already beginning to set in and he's just sitting there, flippantly assuring her it's nothing more than a scratch. She wonders absently how he'd ever survive without her (the simple answer is he wouldn't, couldn't).

The man nearly shivers at the edge of her nail tracing the abrasion, does not shy away from her touch. The rag scratches against the abused skin, causes pinpricks of pain to absently register in the back of his mind. Such things are impossible to focus on; there's only the feel of her fingers over his skin, brushing aside the filth of the day. In this moment, she is everything he remembers. There is something undeniably beautiful in that, in the way her brow furrows in concern as she attempts to clean the offended flesh.

"Do I want to know how this happened?"

Nathaniel smiles at her tone, slightly disparaging as her cooler fingers brush over his heated skin, skillfully stitching the torn flesh back together; it's nothing more than a pinch, pales in comparison to what her proximity is doing to him. "Carter was as surprised to see me as I was him."

"I'll assume his black eye is tribute to that?"

He smirks, "Among other things."

The woman sighs, shaking her head as she covers her work with some of the gel over her stitches. In the span of a few moments the angry red has faded to nothing more than a pinkish color, the flesh all but mended. It leaves her smiling, brushing her thumb over him with more than casual interest. Her eyes linger over the musculature of his arms, his chest, taking in scars she'd at one time been familiar with. Each is an old friend, a mark of her propensity towards preserving him.

"See, Wash," he catches her staying hand, presses it flat against his side, curving over, hiding, the rapidly knitting flesh, "Just a scratch."

She repeats the phrase softly, trailing her nail over another mark, long and jagged, a whitish purple against his tan skin, a souvenir from an industrious mercenary in Somalia; another over his shoulder (one of his earlier encounters with the local wildlife). She smiles softly, "One of these days it'll be more than a scratch."

"I'm not worried," She only raises a brow; for better or worse, he finds himself reaching out to her, the woman everything he remembers and longs for. She comes willingly, amber eyes never breaking from his gaze, arms winding around him. The Lieutenant offers him a wan smile as he settles her on her lap, rests his chin on her shoulder, "When that day comes, you'll be there, Wash. And considering that death only set you back a few weeks, I'm willing to bet you'll be able to put me back together again."

They have hesitated to take such a step up to this point, that hint of reservation, darkness, lurking on the edge of her subconscious something they have respected. He will not push her, not until it is something she desires, not until she is well and truly herself.

There are no reservations in her movements; no anger behind them as there has been in the past; she brushes her lips across his, surprisingly delicate at first, test his willingness to pursue this. Those hands smooth down his neck, clutching at his shoulders as she adjusts to straddle him.

She has decided on this. She has decided on him, on her life here.

It leaves an undeniable sort of warmth flooding through him.

"You sure about this?" He can't bring himself to back out of this, tosses her tank aside somewhere, both moving quickly as if terrified their rationality will catch up with them, lips already moving over the newly exposed flesh, pressing a kiss between her breasts.

Her airy chuckle is the only thing that registers in his mind, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as she holds him in place, her legs tightening about his waist, "Back out of this now, sir, and I might have to kill you."

"Not a chance, Wash."

Not a chance. She smirks at him, pulling him back up to meet her for another kiss, their tongues dueling lazily. She lets out another groan as his hand strays between them, makes short work of her belt, lifts her hips to kick her fatigues down her legs. Perhaps it's still too soon for them but neither can bring themselves to care. This is her life, this is her place in the world, and she welcomes it. The doubts she has harbored about him have all but faded, welcomes him as the nearest thing to an anchor in the chaos of her life.

He smiles, trailing open mouthed kisses down the column of her throat as she gives a quick shunt of her hips to put distance between them, her hands flying to remove what remains of the clothing between them. And perhaps it's some miserable romantic cliché but she's hard pressed to think of a feeling more exquisite then the feel of his heated skin against her own.

She's home…this is her home and this is where she belongs…

He fists a hand in her hair, gentle again as he ghosts kisses over her cheek, her jaw, settling finally at her lips again, expressing sentiment neither have been willing to admit to over the years. Love and something like belonging, the outside world momentarily forgotten in the face of this; their new start. The Badlands do not matter, Lucas does not matter, Carter does not matter, everything is forgotten for this…

And that is a very great failing, something the universe cannot permit.

He pulls away from her at the sound of a familiar trilling, his comm. unit going off in his pocket. It's Shannon, instinct tells him as much. Instinct tells him if he leaves now he will not be coming back any time soon. This moment will be lost to them, set aside in favor of his responsibility to this place. Wash can only offer him a soft quirk of her lips, knowing his decision before it's even fully formed in his head.

Duty will always come before his personal happiness. This place will always come before her.

There's a note of apology, of promise, in that final kiss before he removes himself from her. Wash moves to collect their discarded clothes as he answers the device. He runs a tired hand over his face, gaze lingering on her as she leaves the room (can't help the feeling of loss that momentarily tears at him).

The colony first. If they are to have a future, the colony must come first.

"Taylor here."

* * *

><p>Wash is on his heels as they descend the steps towards under Command, emerge in a familiar cell. Carter is already there waiting for them, still looking exhausted but undeniably pleased with his presence here. It's an odd thing, seeing him glance around almost fondly at the unforgiving structure, a testament to what he's been through over the past few months. The moment they step over the threshold he offers Wash a small smirk, tipping his head to her.<p>

"Good to see you again, Lieutenant," Taylor feels the woman stiffen behind him, her features hardening perceptively. It only causes the Sixer seated in front of them to smile, holding up a pacifying hand, "You look better. And I mean that."

It softens her ever so slightly, earns him a tilt of the head, "Carter." That's as much as he's going to get from her and they both know it. Regardless, he offers her a shrug, conceding that it is more than he might have hoped for. That they are listening at all is a good sign, one he does not consider pushing.

Taylor spares a glance at his Lieutenant (still remarkably impassive, though her amber eyes are narrowed in curiosity) before flicking the entirety of his gaze to the Sixer. The man offers him a smirk, holding up his bound hands. With a quick flick of his knife, the Commander severs the rope, permits the man to rub at his abused wrists, "I'm going to assume you came here for a reason, Carter. Best get to it before my patience runs out."

The man frowns, but does as told, knows that none of them really have the time to beat around the bush. "It's about your son. He's found the portal."

"We heard as much," Taylor settles himself down in the chair across from the younger man, tilting his head to the side, "would have imagined you'd have high tailed it out of here by now."

It's only here that the medic really scowls, his gaze shifting down towards the table. Something beyond anger flashes over his features. Those dark eyes narrow, glancing from Wash to Taylor, "He's not interested in leaving."

"He isn't connecting with 2149?" The Lieutenant quirks her head to the side, openly puzzled by the move. It's in direct contrast with what she knows of the boy.

"He _can't _connect to 2149," the man runs a tired hand through his hair, "Look. Mira knows more about it then I do. She sent me here to find you, Taylor."

Taylor leans back in his chair, staring at the man across from him. It's a look Wash has become overly familiar with over the past few months, searching, looking for some other motivation. There is nothing but honesty written on the typically combatant man's face. Carter bears no great love for the leaders of the colony but his distaste for them pales in comparison to the depth of his loathing for Lucas. There is no benefit in betraying them, nothing to gain from turning them over to the boy.

Both Mira and her second desire little more than that to save their people. Whatever their differences, this is something Taylor can respect. It is simultaneously, Wash decides, one of his greatest strengths and weakness. It binds other to him, lends him a nobility that cannot be debated. It renders him heroic, the grave countenance giving him the appearance of some knight or other fanciful figure as he rises, extending his hand to the Sixer. "Terra Nova cannot turn a blind eye to what Lucas is doing in the Badlands; if he is a continued threat…"

"He is," there is no measure of doubt in the younger man's tone. He has witnessed the depth of the boy's insanity first hand.

Taylor holds up a hand, "…if he is a threat, then we will intervene. I take it Mira has something in mind?" Not a damn question asked, no hesitance, doesn't need a greater explanation; he trusts his instincts, his own moral code. One day (someday looming entirely too near) it will mark his undoing, leaping head first before he has fully ascertained the situation.

"She does."

It's his greatest strength…

"Tell Shannon to prepare a Rover; if your people are in danger we'll move fast."

And a weakness, one that leaves him woefully overextended, that heart of his determined to protect those he deems weaker then himself. Wash throws him a confused look, waits until Carter has vacated the room before she rounds on her superior. The woman levels a finger at the door the Sixer has only just left through, "That's it? That's all? No other questions?"

"They've got nothing to gain from lying, Wash."

"Nathaniel, you are heading out there blind."

His soft chuckle is not inspiring as he comes around to her side of the table, leaning on the surface easily, his arms crossed in front of him. The cool indifference of his posture stands in stark contrast to her own fervor (realizes it sets her at a tactical disadvantage). He only shrugs, "Not blind; your boy says things were getting bad out there. Carter supports the story."

"You're risking your life."

"That's nothing new, Wash," it's the wrong thing to say, causes her to round on him. He does not flinch beneath the strength of her stare, the determination there is one he will not argue with (or bow to). The idea of losing him when she has only just returned is absolutely abhorrent, something she can barely justify in her head. This is wrong. This is not their world. The life they have created here should have been one of peace; she knows this in her gut. Something is wrong; something is missing and every time he leaves her side this feeling is only compounded.

It's nothing new; it had been their life for years. She knows he has bled out beneath her hands; he's technically died once in her arms. Risk is nothing more than another facet of what they are. But that is not what this place is about. She cannot justify risking him in such a manner (not when he is perfectly safe here). The man reaches out a hand, hooks his fingers beneath the hem of her fatigues, tugging her to him.

"You're worrying again, Wash."

"When am I not?" She drums her fingers idly over her hip, "I don't trust her."

"Neither do I," Nathaniel sighs again, runs a hand through his hair, "But Mira cares for her own. I can't imagine any other reason she'd go through such trouble to contact the colony." She is not convinced; that much is painfully evident from the glower turning her features. His expressions softens and he brushes the back of his fingers over her hip, "She let you go, Wash."

"She handed Lucas the colony in the first place."

He concedes this with a small nod of his head, a chuckle, his arm coming around her waist. The silence between them lacks the comfortable quality it has developed over the past few weeks, has degenerated to something awkward. They are at a standstill, neither able to relent, neither quite able to vocalize their reservations. In the end, he simply gives her a squeeze, "You know I have to go." It's simply who he is. The good of the colony, of his people, before himself (or her). Whether it is correct or not, he holds himself responsible for Lucas, responsible for the decisions he has made. And if the boy is harming others then it is his duty to step in.

And duty will always matter more to him than anything. Reason pales in front of it and off he goes, determined to play the hero even if it ends with him dying and martyred (she's learned from the very best after all).

"You don't have to but you will."

"Semantics."

It will always come down to semantics between them. The woman sighs heavily, "And what about me?"

He stiffens in her arms, as if she's jabbed him. He is as aware of their tenuous situation as she, knows this has played out before between them. And unlike her, he has the benefit of memory. He remembers his own indifference, that the only thing registering in his head at the moment was keeping her safe (he needs her here, needs her guarding the colony; she's the only one he will trust with such responsibility and he needs her safe). Everything is playing out precisely as it did before.

It will always come down to semantics between them. He is aware of the situation and its parallels as she but where she realizes the flaws in continuing down the same course as previous he refuses. He will cast them in the same rolls, set them on the same path and pray for a different conclusion. It is hardly logical (but that has always been her role to play, logic to counter his more pressing emotion) but he cannot help what he is. If he closes his eyes he will see her falling; he will see the life drain from those beautiful features.

Even the thought sends a fresh wave of pain to break over his features; the Lieutenant can almost pinpoint the moment where he rejects her argument, comes to his decision (foolish and flawed and unshakable). He leans his head against her shoulder, presses a kiss to her clavicle, open mouthed and rather desperate, "Stay here and make sure Shannon doesn't drive the place into the ground." The one change, the only change, subtle as it is.

Just like before something flashes over her features, a hurt he is entirely too familiar with. The realization that he is willing to set aside years of shared camaraderie, willing to set aside her strengths, simply to suit his peace of mind (without considering her own); he is willing to keep her here (to protect her, always to protect, whether she needs it or not). The muscles beneath his hand tense noticeably as if she is preparing to shrug off his grasp. As before, she does not. She holds up a hand just to let it drop back to her side, the words catching in her throat.

Her voice is so miserably soft, one of her hands tangling in his hair, "You're making a mistake."

"Maybe."

But it's his to make and she has no say in that matter. Whatever power she once held here, whatever power she holds now, depends entirely on his whims. The fool man stares at her, dares her to defy him in this (perhaps hoping that she will, desperate to see her old fire). She has failed in this situation once before (and she will fail again, no matter what argument she makes).

She is his finest soldier, the best field medic they have and knows him better than anyone else. They are a team, functioning as halves of a greater whole. Logically, she should remain at his side, especially in the face of such an unknown. Logically, the medic's presence in his unit should not be up for debate.

Her logic pales in the face of his emotion. It is her lover's face staring back at her, not her Commander's and that is, perhaps, their greatest failing. The man has been cowed by loss one too many times. He has lost his wife; he has lost her. He will not risk it again.

"This is not a negotiation."

It's all played out so perfectly, gone hurdling down the same tracks (had ended with him losing everything, ended with him losing her) that he expects her to simply favor him with a jerky nod, turn and abide by his orders. He expects her to step back.

She only sighs, realizing the futility the argument. It's a repeat of the same argument they've had for months, will continue to have until her memories have fully settled into place, until this wound has healed.

"Nathaniel," her voice is laced with steel and memory, colors and dominates the quiet air of his office, "Please don't do this. Not again."

A feeling more than a memory, her gaze sweeping over him for confirmation; she knows something like this happened before, knows it ended poorly even if she isn't entirely certain what. The squeeze is light, delicately pleading with him. Take her along and change this.

It's a chance, the last one he'll get, to set right his prior mistake. To prove that he trusts her, that he needs her at his side. It's the last chance he's being given to change things, to do what he ought to have done in the first place.

But if he closes his eyes all he'll see is her falling, her broken form, reminding him of the pain he'd endured once already. He will _not_ lose her again. He will _not_ risk losing her again. It simply isn't an option. Some little voice in the back of his mind (hers, he realizes absently as he gently nudges it aside) tells him this is a situation too similar. That he should listen, if only this once, that he can change this cycle. Wash belongs at his side. She has earned her place there through ability rather than sentiment.

In the end, it's not a risk he's willing to take. He can only brush his thumb over her hip before stepping back. Something almost like hope flares in her when he hesitates. He offers her a smile that dies well before his eyes, removes a pair of tags from around his neck before placing them in her hands, "Keep the place running, Wash."

There can be no mistaking the disappointment in her eyes. He's lost ground with her of that there is no doubt. There can be no mistaking his answering expression: He's willing to live with it if it means keeping her safe.

In the end, she can do nothing but watch him walk away a second time, brushes her thumb over the tags in her hand. The dread steadily pooling in her gut only intensifies when she reads the name engraved across the surface. _Alicia Washington. _

He returns every piece of her that might accompany him.

* * *

><p>She is left staring helplessly after him as he departs (the man has the nerve to throw her a wave before he climbs into the vehicle, blasé, as if this is an everyday occurrence and she is mad to fret over it), all her strength useless in the face of his orders. Every one of her senses screams that this is wrong, that she should be there beside him. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides, the color drained from them as the force gradually increases, leaves her pacing the length of his office.<p>

This is wrong; she cannot shake that feeling. It eats at her, gnawing at her awareness, begging her to take some form of action, something, anything, to alleviate this condition. They have fallen into this pattern before with disastrous results. It has to change; it must change. She needs to follow him, needs to do something…

But there is nothing. She is under orders and the perfect soldier always follows her orders. Wash heaves a shaky sigh, staring out over the pavilion towards the jungle beyond, watching the dirt float lazily on the heated air.

It is impossible to deny that this is simply their nature. They are combative, opinionated and that is something that will never change. But she watches him depart with an undeniable dread pooling in her stomach, knows that this has happened before (that there is a chance it will not happen against if she does not _move_). This is wrong, this is following a flawed pattern. This has damned them once before and will do much the same again.

Her nails leave bloody crescents in her palms as she clutches more tightly, seeking some outlet for her own frustration, the feeling of impotence gnawing at her again. It's wrong, though she cannot remember why. She'd let this happen once before, followed his orders to the tee like the perfect soldier she's always been. He expects her to follow them now. The woman's eyes narrow, trailing the cloud of dirt that marks his presence as he moves across the landscape, further and further from her protection.

Logic, rationality, things that have been her constant companions her entire career, tells her that his orders are the correct ones. She is the only one that can be trusted with the colony is his absence. As the ranking officer it only holds that she be placed in charge. Logically, this is the correct choice, the only choice. She has always bent to logic, understands it, comforts herself with it.

Her heart tells her to go after him. It's a feeling, nothing more. She cannot back it with tactics and she cannot justify it. Heart and instinct tell her that this is wrong, that they should not, _cannot_, be separated in such a way; they are perpetuating a flawed cycle. Emotions are not things she understands well; she does not find comfort in such flighty expressions, ideas that cannot be quantified or explained beyond personal inclination.

She has been existing at the whim of nothing more than a feeling ever since she awoke.

The woman releases her white knuckled grasp, her decision final and made in a moment. Washington turns from Command, striding down the stairs in determination. She let him leave her once before; she will not tolerate such a thing again. It is insubordinate and it is the correct (and only) choice.

"Going somewhere, Wash?"

Shannon is smiling at her, the expression knowing, leaning against the railing at the bottom of the stairs. Standing on the bottom step they are nearly the same height; perhaps it renders her more imposing, perhaps it offers him the realization that they are not on level ground. Her friend is boasting that light hearted expression but it doesn't fool her; there is not a hint of mirth beneath that outer veneer. Those blue green eyes are hard, carefully searching her for an answer he already knows.

"You already know, Shannon."

"Sheriff has to have all his facts straight for the record, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant….she can't remember the last time he said her title like that. It's almost accusing, a not so subtle reminder of her station and the promises she's made to this place. Much like Nathaniel, he has lost her once. He will not surrender her to idle whimsy once again. If she moves, she doesn't doubt that he will attempt to stop her.

Attempt is the word she is counting on as she continues her descent, moving past him.

Jim reaches out, catching her wrist more quickly than she would have given him credit for. The grasp is tight, holding her fast though she never makes to pull away, "Wash, he told you to stay behind." A decision he agrees with. She sacrificed herself for them once; he will not see her do it again. He will protect her and she will stay here.

It's a sentiment that simultaneously warms and infuriates her. She steps towards him instead of away (unexpected, surprise briefly flitting over his features), rounds on him, dark eyes flaring. To his credit, the man does not balk, retains his grasp on her, "I know what he said, Shannon. I heard what he said _last_ time. It ended with me dying."

"It won't be like that, Wash."

"You're wrong."

"Alicia…" she can count the number of times he's used her first name on one hand. It simply isn't them, isn't the relationship they've established over their time together. His tone is very nearly pleading (don't make them go through this again; they can't lose her a second time).

Steps forward rather than away once again, the same determined light burning in their eyes (she will go and he will keep her here and neither will bend on this); Wash offers him a wan smile, "I'm not going to die, Shannon. But if I don't go after him…Nathaniel will."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you," she grits her teeth, staring in the direction her Commander departed, the rightness of her words resounding through the whole of her. There can be no doubt as to their truth, "The last time he left me behind I died, Jim. I'd prefer not to test our luck again." Their separation has never ended well. They are powerful alone but nearly undefeatable together; surrendering that advantage simply to indulge his paranoia is foolish. She will not sit here; she will not let him face danger without her beside him.

This is not something she will waver on. All hint of reservation are removed in this moment, all thoughts focused; for the first time since her return she feels well and truly like herself, her conviction undeniable. It bleeds through into her tone, determined, laced with iron, "I'm going after him, Jim. You can help me or not, but I'm going after him."

Shannon's grip on her slackens almost immediately, something strange passing over his features as he takes in her expression. Surprise, perhaps, tempered with a real satisfaction, relief. The corners of the man's lips curl up subtly, the sentiment finally reaching his eyes. The Sheriff simply shakes his head, sighing heavily (but not unkindly) as he meets her unwavering gaze, "Guess there's no way I can talk you out of this, huh?"

"Not a chance in hell."

He doesn't approve, is still hesitant, she sees as much in the momentary hesitation. But she is leaving; no matter the effort he puts into it she will follow her Commander out into the field. In the end, it's nothing more than deciding whether he will allow her to do such a thing alone.

And he never will. Shannon takes another breath, follows her gaze to stare out towards the jungle.

"Then I better go steal Malcolm's Rover."


	11. Chapter 11: Rebirth

**A/N**: I honestly can't believe we've made it to this point. Here we are, lovelies, at the end of this mad adventure. A profound, soul deep, thank you for the beautiful, insanely talented, perfect Zapf-Chancery for offering me motivation, to Inu constantly offering me support and encouraging me and being just...frakkin goddamn _perfect_, and Zoe for assuring me some of the sections weren't too flowering, for offering kind words and support and being the goddess she is. Seriously, I don't know if three more classy, gorgeous, genuinely beautiful women exist. Thank you; thank you so much, my loves. This would never have been done without you. Thank you.

Now, read on and let's finally finish this. Here's hoping you enjoy it. :)

* * *

><p><strong>Rebirth<strong>

* * *

><p>He dreams in blacks and whites instead of color, the lines clearly drawn, marked. There are no shades of gray, no colors that vary as the light cast upon them shifts. There is black and there is white. It is a strange comfort in the boy's head, no meddlesome middle ground to consider. It's been this way as long as he remembers (since Somalia but not before that, no, there had been color before <em>that<em>), a comfort from a time long since removed from him.

Lucas dreams in black and whites. The cave around him is darkness, swallowing and surrounding him, enveloping him in that void. It is somehow simultaneously suffocating and impossibly vast, no edges, no limits, no end to this place…just blackness on blackness, cast into stark relief by the white pouring across his features. The portal is there as it ever is, a light, beautiful in its intensity. There is no smooth transition where one gives way to the other, only two forces, so wildly different, white butting up to black, their edges shattered as they break upon one another.

He dreams of his mother in white, always in white, beautiful and pure, comfort and life incarnate.

He casts his father in black; his tormentor, the one who has so desperately failed him, failed _her_…

There is no delicate overlap between the two of them. And when they come to him in the night, as they always do, he watches as they break upon one another, no gray between them.

He dreams in blacks and whites.

He dreams of the day his father will inevitably find his way here, will attempt to put an end to his work once more. He dreams of the day he will avenge his mother, for the day he will have no more use for the blacks his dream scape is painted with. Such moments have, in the past, brought him no small semblance of pleasure; have allowed him to hold onto his sanity as long as he has. They are a balm on his soul, a comfortable thing, a sure thing, until recently. Before, there had been no doubt as to his inevitable victory. There had been no room for it.

But even as the flickering light of the portal breaks over his features, he feels a hint of gray sneaking into his realm of absolutes. He feels his creation, his_ father's _creation, slipping back into the scenario, adding color, life, where there should be none. The scales tip, even in his head, steals away that certainty. Before, the good Lieutenant had been painted in blacks, his father's pawn.

More and more often, with a surety that leaves him almost sick, Washington finds her way into their confrontation, her fate inextricably linked with the Taylors, bound with the same ties, chains, the same scars, Somalia has etched upon them. More often, she is flanking the Commander. And, more often, he cannot be certain of his victory. He is not enough. It leaves something like fear pooling in his gut, stirs him from his sleep.

There was a time he dreamed in blacks and whites...

…Wash is painted for him in shades of reds, crimsons and maroons that bleed across his mind, corrupting and twisting, fiery, entirely free of his influence as she moves through the dream scape, shattering them as she flanks his father.

He dreams in blacks and whites, childish and absolute. What is coming for him, the conclusion he has not quite braced himself for, the woman he'd so painstakingly created, a phoenix of his own manufacturing, does not fit into those perfectly functional categories. He dreams in blacks and whites; she brings with her color, cuts so cleanly through the perfect, functional, lines he has drawn.

The boy wakes from his sleep as he does so often now, a hand clutched to his chest, drenched in sweat, unable to shake the knowledge that this is all coming to an end. One way or another, this is coming to an end. It is a scenario painted in grays and crimson, bleeding across a world once so simple.

It is coming to an end (and he finds himself meeting such a fate with something nearing hesitance, fear, rather than the confidence that had once come so easily).

* * *

><p>The Badlands spread around them, afternoon sun playing over the sand, rendering everything painfully bright. The air around them seems to burn in his lungs as it rushes by the vehicle, dust and grit billowing up and around them. The ride itself is painfully silent, Carter saying nothing. It is a mercy in of itself, he supposes, his own thoughts too consumed as they draw nearer to the Sixer woman's camp.<p>

He will not admit to having made a decision he regrets; he will not say he's sorry (he isn't). These things are cold comforts; inevitably, his eyes will slide shut; inevitably, his thoughts will wander. In those moments, there is only one thing presented for him in striking clarity. Wash's face, hurt and disappointed for reasons he isn't entirely certain he understands. Those amber eyes, tracing each of his movements with a strange sort of finality, weight, as he puts distance, physical and emotional, between them.

He will not say he regrets it or that he made an incorrect call (does not believe either).

Still, it hangs on him with a wretched sort of weight, every bit as merciless as the sun beating down on them overhead. A quiet voice, one he vaguely recognizes as hers, whispering that this could, and should, have been different; she should be at his side.

The decision is made and there is no time to reverse it (and he wouldn't even if the option were presented to him). Taylor silences that voice, gently sequesters it away in the back of his mind to tend to at a later date, focuses on the vehicles rapidly looming in front of them. The Sixer beside him comes to a smooth stop, motioning that the older man go on ahead.

His feet make little noise as he crosses the sand but Mira looks up regardless, dark bags rimming her eyes. For a moment, she simply stares, openly surprised by his presence. He has become accustomed to her double talk, to phrases dripping with barely veiled loathing. It is strange then, that she  
>should sound so openly relieved.<p>

"Taylor, I almost didn't think you'd come."

It's almost impossible to justify the woman in front of him with the powerful creature from his memories. She's thinner, so much thinner, barely more than a shadow of herself. The clothes once so perfectly fitted to her hang awkwardly, the hair less immaculately braided. The aura of confidence, power, that so perfectly characterized her is still present although muted. Still a warrior, still a leader, simply carries herself with the affronted dignity of one who has been cast down from an impossible height, shamed.

It makes her dangerous, this he does not doubt. The beautiful woman has been spurned, deceived. Taylor approaches slowly, fingers hooked in the loops of his belt, glancing over his shoulder towards Carter. The younger man remains at his side, nodding wordlessly to the Sixer woman. He pauses a good distance from the pair of them, painfully aware of the circumstance he has willingly placed himself in, holds his head high, "Believe me, I was tempted." She arches a brow at the comment, something like a smile turning her lips at the familiar banter. It's oddly comforting to know some things will never change, "Make this quick, Mira."

"As trusting as ever."

"Last time I saw you, you were flying the Phoenix's flag from the balcony of Command," if he didn't know her better, if she weren't so painfully skilled at schooling her reaction to such things, he'd almost say she winces at that. The image of the colony burning, the dead in the street, Lucas at her side; something like regret burns in those dark eyes; a small thing, not enough to cool his anger. To her credit, she does not flinch under the intensity of his gaze, "You'll forgive me for a moment's caution."

The withering sigh is slightly surprising. Mira shakes her head, looks much smaller, considerably more worn in the desert surrounding them than she had in her natural environ. These months have aged her immeasurably, stolen away some of that feral grace. Only a woman, a soldier, stares back at him, seeking a resolution to a situation she has no place being a part of, "Self interest, Taylor. Lucas had something I wanted; I helped him in exchange for that." Crossing her arms over her chest she speaks with a finality even he cannot doubt, practically spits the words, "He can no longer deliver."

"How selfless of you."

"It's what I'm good at it, Taylor. If nothing else, it ensures I won't betray you. I look out for myself and my people," it is true. She takes a step towards him, a bit more of her old self shining through as she moves across the desert. The midday sun plays off her dark skin prettily, highlights the bruises dotting her features, the scars that have long since healed (each a tribute to the impossible situations she has endured; she will live through this much the same, cares little which side facilitates this), "Right now, you're our best bet."

"And when I'm not?"

"That's not what we're here for."

But she does not deny that that day might come, likely will. Taylor will not deny that she is correct; such things matter little in the face of his son's continued presence. With a small nod, he closes the remaining distance between them, extends a gloved hand. There is a moment's hesitation, something like mutual disdain at the prospect of allying with an age old rival, before she reaches out to clasp it, smiling dourly. No, such things will wait until they are finished here, will wait until there is a future for them to fight for. "Carter was tight lipped about the situation. You're going to have to fill me in."

Grim faced, the woman offers him a mirthless sort of smile, nodding as she indicates the Rover behind them.

* * *

><p>"How do you expect this to go, Wash?"<p>

She ignores the man beside her, attention focused solely on the uneven terrain in front of them. The metal frame lets out a groan of protest as the zoom over an embankment at a speed far from advisable. It has him screwing his eyes shut momentarily, clutching the seat beside him with more vigor. Shannon glares at her, shaking his head.

At any other moment, she'd chuckle; perhaps berate him for his hesitance. At the moment, she does no such thing, simply applies more gas. They have not lost a terrible amount of ground. They are not too far behind. She can close the distance if they go a little faster, just a little faster, just a little further…

"Think he's just going to see your face and go: Guess I was wrong. Should have taken you with me, Wash, would change it all if I could…"

She doesn't expect that at all.

The man shakes his head at her continued silence, fingers drumming idly against the leg of his pants. Nervous, whether he will admit to it or not (a feeling she can sympathize with), waiting, just waiting on the edge of this precipice, knowing full well that they are marching into nothing less than a war zone.

There is no conviction in her voice when she speaks, "It's going to be fine, Shannon."

"Not a chance in hell, Wash," but he's smiling at her regardless, almost a smirk, something that says he knows precisely what's going through her head. That says he knows she is prepared for a fight, ready to bring this to an end. After months of flitting idly about, she's content simply to take action. "But you wouldn't be the Lieutenant if you didn't make things as life threatening as possible."

She wouldn't be the Lieutenant. She wouldn't be the Wash he remembers. She wouldn't be herself.  
>She finds those ties to her old life subtly reassuring as she speeds over the terrain, lessens the distance between Taylor and herself, draws closer to the force that had unmade her once before. Shannon goes oddly silent in the passenger seat, recognizes he has very little place in this, that his teasing will do neither of them any good. Leaves her to the voices in her head with the realization that this will finally be it, that after so many years she will finally have a conclusion to a chapter of her life she has no interest indulging.<p>

Perhaps it's melodramatic and perhaps it's more than a little foolish but she's unable to shake the feeling that things have been unequivocally altered, that there is no turning back. What is more telling, she supposes, is she would have it no other way. A part of her, very real, is eager to meet this conclusion.

And she will meet it at his side as she always has.

* * *

><p>"Too many guards."<p>

Taylor runs a tired hand through his hair, frowning again, "Then what would you suggest, Mira?"

It earns him the expected silence, the Sixer woman worrying her lower lip between her teeth in an uncharacteristic show of uncertainty. The lines they have drawn in the sand are erased again, set back to basics. She will begin to etch a plan only to erase it once more.

No matter how they figure it there simply aren't enough of them. When she had suggested, offhandedly enough, that he reinforce them with troops from the colony he'd simply scoffed. On the off chance that the woman is not playing completely honest he refuses to endanger his home a second time.

They will make do. There is no other option.

The Commander crouches down beside the roughly etched map once more, indicates the Sixer encampment, "We need to focus on getting your people out of there. Lucas is our primary objective but without the leverage your people are offering we'll have an advantage." He frowns, running the scenario through his head (nearly possible, just need a few more bodies…),

"If Carter and I were to hold them off here…" He indicates the mouth of the ravine, as effective a bottleneck as he's seen, "You think you'd be able to get them evacuated?"

The Sixer nods slowly, "It would take a few minutes but it'd be possible…"

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming?"

"But," Mira smirks, nothing resembling mirth playing with her tone. If anything there is only a trace amount of exhaustion there, hopes reborn and crushed too frequently for her to effectively handle, "Without some form of cover fire…Taylor, there won't even be a choke point for you to hold."

"We're dealing with what we have, Mira. We'll make it work."

She appears far from convinced, shaking her head. It's the closest they've come to a functional plan, if flawed, and neither will openly dispute it despite the doubts they may retain. As desperately as he would like to deny it, she is correct. They will not be capable of holding their ground. Hell, if they even make it that far, he'll be surprised.

There is no alternative. They will make this work; it's that simple.

* * *

><p>They're moving too slow. They're moving too slow and she's never going to make it. She feels as much in her gut, pooling with the uncertainty, the dread, a worry almost soul consuming. Some voice in the back of her head, small and so much like Lucas, whispers that she will never make it; no matter how hard she fights she cannot change this. They've skirted death one too many times and it's finally come to collect.<p>

Her teeth bar in something like a sneer, enough for Shannon to hesitate.

She will not be late; she will not allow them (him) to meet this end.

There is no alternative; it's that simple.

In the end, the solution they reach is elegantly simplistic.

They cannot hope to overcome through brute force alone; they simply don't have the numbers for it. What they do have, however, is the element of surprise. And while Mira's loyalty is undoubtedly viewed as less than secure, the boy is too consumed in his work to suppose she might turn on him.

They will walk him right into that den. And then they will strike.

A voice in his head tells him to hesitate, wait just another moment. But it's Mira's hand on his arm, her gaze serious, determined to be done with this. "We need to move now, Taylor." Move before they can think better of it, before night falls completely, before her absence arouses suspicion. The voice tells him to wait…

...It's ignored, as it has been so frequently. He climbs into the Rover beside the Sixer, that voice pleading with him all the way.

* * *

><p>She's too late. In the end she's too late. He's gone and she's too late and things are speeding impossibly down that road they've walked too many times. She's too late. They're moving before she can stop it, speeding towards the camp, leaving her and Shannon watching from the ledge above. So close and just a second too late.<p>

She's here though. And regardless of whether or not she is at his side she _will _defend him.

"You alright?"

Shannon offers her a look, rather disinterested despite his tone, handing her the rifle. This is not the time for such discussions, as they are both away. She accepts the weapon, slipping behind that imperceptible mask once more, grim faced as Taylor and Mira draw nearer to the rocky outcropping. Tension coils in her gut, a gentle warning that this is no time to allow herself pander to idle distractions.

"Fine, Shannon."

She's isn't, not entirely, a thing both are pointedly aware of. The man makes no comment. Despite his pension for teasing he knows precisely where and where he is not permitted to tread. Insinuating himself in this situation will earn him no good will. Will a solemn nod, he reaches out to clasp her shoulder briefly, the only hint of camaraderie between them in the moment. There are more important things to concern themselves with; that this will affect her judgment, will hardly influence her. It's a mark of trust, she supposes, that he so readily takes his place beside her, trusting, knowing this will hardly affect her performance.

The evening light bounces off the mountain side, reflecting in surprisingly, deceptively, bright colors. The glare is something of a nuisance, abated somewhat by the knowledge that they are receiving precisely the same amount of cover. With a somber shake of her head she falls into place, propping herself up against the boulder shielding them from the body of the enemy encampment below. Everything around them fades to a dull hum, vision narrowing down to little more than the image presented through her scope, carefully trailing ahead of the Rover.

"You think they're going to feel up to a chat?"

"Not a chance in hell."

The man chuckles as she throws his earlier words back at him, nothing resembling mirth in the sound only a tired sort of acceptance. No other words to say as they wait for the inevitable to transpire. There are guns trained on the new arrivals almost immediately (a surprise to no one). Mira steps out immediately, gesturing to those still behind her.

"Counting six of them up front, another three to the left and at least another two in the chasm."

Not terrible odds. The moment the Phoenix mercenaries approach the vehicle it's obvious what's happening. The line of thought is almost visible as it passes from his brain to his mouth, the young man yelling out a harsh, quick, order to deal with the new intruder. If there is one thing Lucas has made himself abundantly clear on, it's the manner his father should be handled with. In this case, no consultation is necessary. His hand makes to drop to the pistol still holstered securely at his hip (never even manages to flick open the clasp).

And just like that, the relatively serene evening descends into the particular state of chaos she remembers so intimately. She's moving before she's evening entirely aware of it, aim adjusting ever so slightly as she braces for recoil. The shot makes a clipped sort of noise as it passes through the silencer, a cutting counterpoint to the sudden outcry in the encampment, a more fitting companion to her smirk.

Through the scope she watches the unfortunate soldier slump down against the wall. One of his companions stares at him in a mixture of shock and horror, quickly breaking rank in an a desperate attempt to find cover. There's a flash of surprise on Mira's face (something more akin to grim realization on Taylor's, aware that she has disobeyed him, somehow knowing she out there) before they move into action, unwilling to question their good fortune.

A part of her knows she should hate this, that it shouldn't be so damn easy to simply slip back into this state, cold and detached, a being ruthlessly effective. Her voice is perfectly level, doesn't turn to look at her companion even as she feels his eyes moving over her, searching for something, "Where'd you learn to count, Shannon?"

"Alright," he shrugs, "five."

"Funny," she squeezes the trigger again, "I count four."

The man's chuckle has never sounded so grim to her ears. There is nothing nearing enjoyable or honorable in this work, picking off those so near to death. There is nothing comforting as their numbers deplete (three left and then two, their own shots supporting as Taylor and Mira moving easily through them). One man, almost skeletal in countenance, no more than twenty five, attempts to cry out, spotting them on the edge of the ravine. She watches in curiosity as he scrambles back over the uneven terrain, pointing over at them (as if his companions can focus on anything other than the chaotic figures moving through their ranks), yelling. The words are lost to her but the tenor carries through well enough. Panic, fear….

It devolves into little more than a wet gurgling, horror tugging at his features as he clutches his ruined throat, goes mercifully silent. And just like that, they are forgotten, the mercenaries turning their attention back on Taylor. Mira is calling something out to what remains of her people. The Sixer woman's voice is somehow clear through the din, gathering them together. There are shrieks from within the ravine, warnings called out as what remains of Lucas' force gathers into a more defensible position. Shannon mops up the stragglers as she lends the Commander a bit of much needed cover. It's almost a sixth sense that tells him he's safe to move up; the man never once stops to glance behind him, to check whether or not she remains or whether it is safe to progress. He trusts, absolutely, no matter what his frustrations, that she will be there. That she will watch after him, whether he condones her presence or not. She is there for him; he accepts this.

For whatever reason, it is that image which sticks with her, lends a preternatural calm to each of her careful movements. That expression is present behind her eyes, a memory of her previous life (more gunfire, worse conditions, the telltale scent of blood coloring the air). Something twinges painfully in her chest as she reloads her rifle, hands moving through the task by instinct alone, a telling callback to a time that has no place here. Things, violence, that should be forgotten; things they ought to have left behind. It should sadden her, should remind her of what she is fighting for. It should be difficult to slide so easily back into this after so long.

But it isn't and it is that alone that resonates with her. She is a soldier; that is in her blood rather than her memories, intrinsically etched on every fiber of her being. The knowledge that she will exists as this, always be_ this_ above all else, weighs heavily on her. She has blood on her hand whether or not she remembers it (she does). Death, as close as she'd come to it, had offered her little more than a temporary balm, the illusion of cleanliness and a fresh start.

She plucks off another unknowing mercenary (older, grizzled, and she realizes, absently, that she remembers him from her time in the Badlands. Knows that his name had been Martin or Marcus and that he hadn't been horrible to her) as he circles around Taylor's left flank. He's falling before he's even raised his arm to strike, missing a decent chunk of his skull before the Commander has even realized his presence. It's only then that the man turns, pauses no more than a second to offer her a curt nod of appreciation in her general direction (trusting, knowing, that she's there, whether or not he condones it).

It's that image that she clings to as her scope slides over the clearing field of battle.

In her past life, as Lucas had so frequently told her, she'd thrown himself into battle for the man in front of her. She's killed for him, permanently stained her soul for him.

It is odd then (and somehow the simplest thing in the word) that with this second chance at redemption, purity, she so eagerly casts it aside. She has blood on her hands, yes, and that will always remain. What slips into place is the familiar, unshakable, knowledge that she would willingly bathe in it to preserve him.

And it's that image she keeps with her as she descends from her perch, grim faced and more assured than she's been in months as she follows the bloody swath they have cut through their once idyllic home.

* * *

><p>He isn't entirely certain where Mira ducks away to as she gathers her people, doesn't much care. The awareness, carefully honed over decades as a soldier, is focused entirely on the combat spreading out around him. Carter is rushing forward into the mouth of the chasm as soon as it's clear that their snipers have cleared a path, eager to put an end to this.<p>

They do not frequently see eye to eye but this on much they agree.

The sonic rifle hums to life, the familiar high pitched sound echoing through the thin passage before it strikes the man at the end with an audible thud, sends him careening back. It's an issue then of pushing forward, keeping the enemy off balance, unorganized (not difficult; their ranks shatter with surprising ease, exhaustion, starvation, disease, all taking their toll on an already suffering morale). Taylor feels no reservations, no hesitation, as they break in front of them. Some flee down the far passage, realizing the futility of fighting. It's easy, almost laughably so, as they move forward.

Soldiers for hire with no benefactor, without a leader, without motivation; it's hardly an opposition at all. Carter motions absently to the older man behind him, smirking with a dark sort of satisfaction (understandable, again), "Kid's down there, Taylor."

There's a finality to the prospect that at one time might have frightened him. There had been a time, only months prior, where the prospect of ending his son's life would have been abhorrent, unthinkable. It is a time long since past. The Commander feels something settle into place in his gut with a sort of striking weight; the knowledge that he is capable of this, capable of ending his own son, weighs heavily on him. It is not, however, the crippling weight it once was. Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a glint of fading sunlight off of metal, nothing more than a flash in the rapidly darkening landscape. Wash (his mind supplies this to him immediately, certain of her identity), beside him as always (should be furious with her, _is_furious with her but cannot argue her decision now) .

It's this image he keeps with him as his feet lead him onwards into the gaping maw of that cave, a dour look tugging at the corners of his lips. Instinct and rationality tell him to wait, not to leave her behind, not again. It would be the simplest thing in the world, nothing more than a momentary delay.

He never breaks stride, voice low, measured, as they move forward, "Then what are we waiting for?"

Wait. Just wait. It's hissed in his head, her voice echoing about his mind, the tenors subtly pleading with him. Just wait, just this once. He cannot do even that (imagines her calling out to him, not worry, only a very real frustration, coloring her words).

Taylor does not throw a glance over his shoulder, doesn't have to. She is behind him, is coming for them as she always has. The Sixer, whatever he feels, follows just as readily. The sounds of battle is dying off on the surface, weaving its way down the awkwardly, quickly etched, steps in the cave floor. There's no light save for the bit drifting down from the surface and a familiar silvery blue lapping ever so slightly around the furthest end of the passage. It is surreal at the very best, a pointed reminder of the things he had tried (failed) to prevent once before.

He has failed more times than he cares to count with him son. This time, he will not.

That silent vow settles into place with indisputable finality (more frightening, perhaps, is the realization that it does not tear at him as it once did). The sonic rifle in his arms flares to life.

* * *

><p>Carter is down the moment they round the damn corner. It isn't precisely his fault, but the smaller man goes flying, hits the man and lands in a tattered heap. It has the Commander rolling well clear, quickly scanning the room, searching. It takes little effort to locate the genesis of the blast. His son is smiling at him, tosses the weapon (almost foreign looking, subtle modifications differentiating it from their own sonic rifles) weapon easily aside. Lucas throws a quick glance towards the stairs, momentarily puzzled when no other soldiers descend.<p>

No, there is only father and son, a fitting conclusion to things.

The portal flares violently to life, the energy almost licking at their skin as Taylor straightens to his full height, impressive looking despite the dirt marring his features. It's almost strange how desperately he seems to dwarf the boy as he moves nearer, blue eyes almost cold looking in the alien light. It's a familial resemblance that look, nearly disdain as Lucas refuses to move from his position. His son holds his head high, proud, arms out wide, "I was wondering if you intended to leave me out here, Commander." He cocks his head to the side, "It seemed too great a risk. I'm glad to see you're finally intent on cleaning up loose ends."

Loose ends, the term is spoken with a hopeless callousness, offhandedly as it it's nothing. As if it's not a father forced to end his son, as if it will not determine the fate of this place.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Lucas."

Doesn't it? Even the father has trouble justifying such a statement, knows the futility of it before it's left his lips. It's only confirmed as the boy sneers back at him, glaring as if the words are a mockery of his sensibilities, some poison fed to him. There is no way to properly atone for his evils, no way to dull the hatred undulating in time with the portal's glow, slick and oily as it moves beneath his skin. There is no way he can bring his son back. It's a truth the rational side of his recognizes.

But he cannot help but extend the offer, some part of him, some desperate part, still hoping he might get through to the boy.

Lucas cocks his head lightly to the side, somewhat amused by the notion, equal parts frustrated by it. He continues to stand his ground, staring the man down, so much smaller, so much like his mother. Those green eyes, twisted into something wretched, clear momentarily, become less hazy as they focus solely on the man in front of him (not the chaos of the world above), "It can't be anything else, Father. Not now."

He expects it when the boy lunges at him, a syringe in hand. He expects it, catches him around the wrist. It still tears at him, a pointed reminder of how far gone his boy is (but he'll always see him as a child, green eyes and an inquisitive smile, shy as he clutches his mother's hand). With a growl, he tightens his grip until Lucas releases the item, sends it skittering across the cave floor. He feels every bone beneath his hand grind against one another, a few snapping as he smashes it against the side of the pillar (Ayani would be so ashamed of what he's become). Lucas lets out a sharp yowl of pain, clutching the injured appendage to his chest.

Yes, he's expecting his son's betrayal. What he is not expecting, however, in the second figure coming up behind him. He whirls in time to prevent the fist from connecting with his jaw. He is not, however, quick enough to prevent the needle suddenly logged in his arm, watches as some strange milky white liquid is pumped into his veins. In one fell swoop, every muscle in his body goes leaden.

* * *

><p>"Alright, <em>now <em>there are six of them."

Maybe Shannon laughs; maybe it's just a sigh of disbelief as they quickly duck behind cover. Whatever it is, it has her shaking her head, torn between amusement and the tell tale impotence that being placed in such a situation generates. Tactically, their position is not sound. Technically, they shouldn't be here to begin with. But she'd watched, since Nathaniel glance back at her with a determination so steeled that it had instantly set her feet running towards them.

And now here they are, cleaning up the loose ends he'd been too foolish to consider, reinforcements back from another fruitless hunt in the Badlands. She tucks her chin to her chest as one of the stray blasts hits an outcropping of rock not from her head, showering them in a mixture of dust and rock, the pieces nipping at her cheeks. She feels a rush of warmth pooling on the skin there as the shallow laceration begins to take shape, trailing the bone there. Shannon coughs, waving a hand in front of his face to clear the mixture away, glances at her. He's escaped relatively unscathed as well, though his brow is bleeding furiously. With a toss of his head, he pivots his body around to take aim, fires off a quick blast. It fails to connect but there's a shout of surprise as it impacts the ground near them.

The odds aren't tipped so heavily against them; it's repeated lowly under her breath, little more than a growl as her eyes momentarily stray to the cave they are defending. Taylor is below, ending this, bringing them some semblance of closure. All they have to do is hold out here.

The woman glares down at the rifle in her arms, decidedly useless in such close quarters, low on ammunition. With a low hiss of breath, she sets it aside, reaching for the sonic pistol on her hip. Less flashy but more effective considering their tenuous position; the Sheriff rapidly follows suit, huffing out his response as he quickly glances over their impromptu shelter, "Feeling chicken, Wash? I thought you wanted to save your prince." He fires quickly before ducking down, prepared this time for the rain of debris. This time, she refrains from joining him, waits patiently for the opening in their enemies pattern. The satisfying, tell tale, crack of bone as the sonic pistol's blast throws a mercenary back into the cliff face drifts back to them.

She's taking aim (risky, been exposed too long) when Shannon hauls her back down beside him, openly angry and confused with her blatant disregard for her own safety.

Feeling chicken? Not a chance in hell.

It's insane, absolutely goddamn insane, but she finds herself laughing (because maybe she'll go insane if she doesn't), the absurdity of their situation only just settling in. It's the realization that she doesn't have one goddamn iota of control here, that she could die here. It's the realization that after all these months, she's finally, _finally_ come home and that this perpetual state of chaos is _precisely _where she belongs. Jim offers her a quick nod, rolling out and across the line aisle to a higher bit of cover, exposes a bit more of the mouth of the chasm.

The echo of the blasts resounds throughout the space, almost alien in the once serene silence. She waits patiently, counting off this time. One blast, two, three, a fourth staggering in there well after the fact, all in addition to Shannon's own shot. She counts again, pinpointing their locations to the best of her ability.

She's laughing, the sound half mad even to her own ears, entirely free and light even through the cacophony. It has Shannon joining her, shaking his head in dark amusement. Amber eyes locks with familiar blue green ones. She levels an accusing finger at him.

"We survive this," there is no doubt that they will. Death is not an option for either of them, not now, not any time soon. It bears saying only as she leans out into the line of fire, carefully taking aim before squeezing the trigger, watching the bolt of charged energy rip through the air, echoing around her words with faux severity. "And I'm telling the Commander you said that."

When he smiles at her rather than shrinks back, extends his hand to her to pull her across the aisle, grinning in a naked amusement and pride rather than anything resembling shame, she knows without a shadow of a doubt that she is home. This is home. This is her life, these people are her family and that is simply all. He gives her a patronizing, halfway dismissive pat on the shoulder (as if to say she's falling behind), "Thought you could use something to live for."

As she settles back in to defend this cave mouth she wonders if he realizes exactly how spot on the gibe is. Or that she's found precisely that and she has no intention of letting go.

* * *

><p>His body is little more than a prison, vision swimming dangerously as the cocktail of drugs flows through his system. The pain is still there, an omnipresent force left to punctuate, to torment, to <em>remind <em>him where he is. It's nothing more than an echo in the din of his consciousness, the distant sounds of battle reaching him as if through a thick pane of glass. Lucas takes a step away from him, staring in a mixture of confusion and fascination up at those stairs as the noises become more pointed, nearer.

The boy doesn't turn to look at him as he claws his way back to his knees, perhaps reassured in his own safety, perhaps simply unable to care. In the near darkness of the cave, only the unnatural light of the portal playing over his sharp features, Lucas appears almost inhuman. His voice comes as though from far away, hardly himself, halfway reverent, barely a hiss as it twists in the air between them, something hideous and threatening, "She's come for you, Father." The boy tips his head lightly to the side, a half mad light glittering in eyes once beautiful, smiling, disbelieving, "After everything you've put her through she is still so willing to burn for the great Commander Taylor."

_She _is coming for him (it's the furthest thing from what he wants; it's wrong…). Taylor shakes his head, growls as his fingers curl into the rock beneath him, searching for purchase. She can't be here…he can't lose her again…

The boy shakes his head, "Of all people she should be the one to see." But she doesn't, never has, never will. They are, the both of them, willfully blind. But what the son will never understand is his Lieutenant's pointed awareness of his faults. She knows the shortcomings that render him so starkly human, the man behind the legendary facade the people choose to believe in. She works to shore up such weaknesses, shape him as he once so painstakingly crafted her.

She is the furthest thing from blind (the only one who truly sees) and it is this the son will never comprehend, cannot understand such loyalty, devotion.

It is a glaring weakness, one that creates a chasm between the two men.

Lucas stares at him in curiosity, kneeling in front of him. It is an odd juxtaposition, the grace, the elegance of the slender boy to contrast his bloodied figure, one nearly angelic, the other coated in gore. So soft, almost childish, "Your supposed humanity just makes her heart bleed though, doesn't it?" The touch is surprisingly gentle as the boy reaches out for the first time in so long, gently cupping his father's cheek. Lucas sighs softly, leaning forward until their foreheads touch, the father's blood staining the son's once pure skin. "The messiah can _feel_…"

_She is coming for him._

He sees only gray and the flecks of impossible green (envy and insecurity bleeding seamlessly into one another, forming some hideous amalgamation that has woven itself into the child's soul), hears only that voice, the sounds of her descent (guns, death, the smell of blood, as integral a part of her as the color of her eyes). The rock bites at the tips of his fingers as he fights to right himself again. There is nothing resembling warmth in his son's smile, loathing, disillusion and insanity playing at the corner of those thin lips as his hand slides down to clutch his neck, "The messiah is _human_."

It takes nothing more than a shove to send him reeling, crashing back towards the floor. His neck snaps back, collides painfully with the uneven terrain (tastes that familiar iron tang as he bites down on his tongue). With the grace of the viper he so resembles, Lucas is on him instantly hands fisted in his shirt, hauling him into a sitting position. "So human, something for her to touch, to mourn…."

The boy laughs (so bitter, an echo of the sound he remembers, of that broken child from so many years ago), digging slender fingers in fresh wounds, smiling at the pain so nakedly written across his father's features, "A good messiah needs his martyrs, father, and you have such a talent for sacrificing the women who _love _you."

_Love_…

Things he is already aware of and yet jarring to hear regardless. The man stares forward into nothingness, the boy releasing his hold on him. The screams from above are pointed (gunfire dying down, their choked yells echoing about the dark room), booted feet descending those stairs, determined. There is no hesitation there, no second guessing, no turning back. This is where it ends, there can be no doubt.

It's almost strange, then, that he feels something like dread pooling in his gut.

Because there is simply no way it ends well. There is no way for them to world blurs in shades of gray.

* * *

><p>The darkness of the cave is almost stiflingly oppressive, writhing and expanding near the edges of her vision. It's almost alive, oily, as it licks its way towards her in broken tendrils, flickering as the light breaks and flares back to life. It tugs at something within her, fills her with a sensation dangerously familiar to dread. In the pit of her stomach, in the back of her mind, she can feel every doubt, every painted lie, rearing its dark head, meshing so seamlessly with the shadows around them. Rationality, self preservation and that little voice in the back of her head (hissing over her nerves) demand that she turn back. She needs to get away from here, has to if she's to remain sane...<p>

_She's survived this once; she will not emerge unscathed a second time…_

…she needs to get away from here. The Lieutenant brushes a hand angrily through the air in front of her, clearing aside doubts as readily as the cobwebs flittering on the air in front of her (coating her thoughts). There is no turning back, her feet carrying her forward of their own volition. The woman renowned for her strength, for her poise, for her courage, is exhausted, so very tired of running, of cowering. The boy's shadow has hung over their lives, over her life, long enough; it ends now…

She will end it now (no way for them to win).

Wash's grip tightens on the pistol as she emerges into the chamber, Shannon on her heels. The unnatural light that had made its ways up the stairs is flooding the place, bathes them in blues and purples. Standing in the center of the room, hands folded coolly behind his back, is Lucas, staring, waiting like some coiled snake (every bit as venomous). Blood is smeared across his features, slick over his fingers and up over his wrists. The boy tilts his head lightly to the side as he smiles up at her, the expression oddly macabre.

And as ominous as it should be, despite the warning in her head, she cannot prevent her gaze from flicking to the man on his knees (something so inherently wrong in the image). Those blue eyes, so sharp, so familiar, are oddly glassy, staring at her but not precisely seeing; Taylor makes no attempt to move, fingers curling ineffectively at the rock. It sends a hot, indignant, rush of fury through her.

To see the man set so low is intolerable. Her weapon is trained on him immediately, the metal glimmering in the flickering light as brightly as those insufferable green eyes she's become so familiar with. A pull of the trigger and this all ends…

_She hesitates, always hesitates, because he's still Nathaniel's son, no matter what else, he's his son and that must count for something…_

…but instinct stills her hand, knows it cannot be so easy. It earns her an approving nod, a subtle twitch of something held behind the Commander's head. The Lieutenant holds a hand up, stilling her partner.

Shannon frowns, shifting slightly behind her, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. As quick as he is, it won't be enough. It will take nothing more than a flick of the boy's wrist to end things. Strange, that it is calm that descends upon her rather than panic. Anger, yes, but never panic. It is something he notes with curiosity, staring at her as if she is something strange and new.

A low moan from the near the stairs in the only thing to draw their attention (Carter, undoubtedly suffering a few broken ribs). It does not break their gaze, amber on green, silently gauging the other. There is a fascination there, as if searching (dreading) finding something in her.

He tosses a nod towards the prone man, speaking to the Sheriff though not looking at the man, voice nearly soft, "Take him and go; neither of you has anything to do with this."

"I am not going to leave her down here with…"

"Shannon."

Jim winces, not at the sharpness of her tone, but the strength in it, the conviction. In that moment, the man feels something like shame for doubting his friend. He stares at her for a long moment (smiles at what he sees, strange as she feels no different) before nodding, holstering his weapon before crossing to the prone Sixer. He makes no second attempt to dissuade her, know it is neither needed nor welcome.

As far as Shannon is concerned, the woman standing there now is the one they'd lost so long ago, finally returned to them. This is this Wash he remembers, respects. This is the Wash he will yield to. The Sheriff hooks one arm under Carter's knees, the other around his ribs, before lifting him. When he passes by his friend, he does not offer her any words of comfort. He does not wish her luck (she won't need it).

Jim flashes her wolfish grin, "Make it quick, Wash."

She has every intention of it.

Silence permeates the air between them, colors it with a high, purring sort of energy. When the echoes of Shannon's footsteps have become distant, he offers her a wicked sort of smile, holds his hands out wide, leaves himself open for attack (blood on those hands, his father's, Nathaniel's). There is an elegance, a poise, there that once would have unnerved her (and leaves her feeling oddly numb now).

"Well then? Make it quick, _Wash_." Tone caressing her title as it once had, an open invitation. In one smooth move, he lets the blade fall to rest against his hip, removes the threat from his father. It would be easy, so miserably easy, to end him now. No ramifications, no fight. One twitch of her finger and it will be over, that chapter of her life closed.

One pull of the trigger...

"You can't do it, can you, Lieutenant?" His voice is little more than a purr, velvety as it reaches out to caress her senses, mocking in its presumed intimacy. Though they have been painstakingly buried beneath time and presumed trust, he can just make out the thin lines of his own teachings weaving beneath her skin, worming their way into her consciousness. He sees the doubt, the trace of _something _still eating away at her. "After everything that's happened, after everything he's told you, you still can't bring yourself to end this."

It is a glaring weakness, presumed pity staying her hand, preventing her from making the decision she must. Lucas smiles, gesturing lightly, flippantly, with the blade in his hand, "You've killed before, Alicia; it's what they created you for." It's what his father had shaped her for. Her tongue darts out to wet lips suddenly painfully dry, so very conflicted despite it all. So miserably _human_, he thinks.

Still his creation despite it all; he offers her a smile that might be described as fond, patronizing as he steps toward her, chuckling. "It's so simple, Lieutenant," he feels his father's eyes settle on him, boring into his skull. It will make his ultimate victory so much sweeter, to finally and completely break her in front of the man. He holds his arms out wide, stopping less than a few feet across from her. The image is almost painfully reminiscent of their encounter that night in Terra Nova. Something like recognition flashes in her eyes, tempered by confusion as he speaks, still smiling, "Just pull the trigger and you will have saved everything you loved. You'll be _free, _Alicia."

She hesitates (because there is no way she can win), runs the situation through her head over and over, searching for some alternative where there is none. Shoot or step away. Kill him and risk the love of his father, forfeit her soul, prove him right, or spare him and perpetuate the threat to everything she has sought to protect. It is an almost direct recreation of their previous encounter, though their positions have been reversed.

Her aim seems to wavers and then drops, comes to rest against her hip.

In the end, she is weak; she cannot take the step he did. In the end, he sees her decision as a failure, laughing coldly, "You can't do it. You're too much like him." She glances at him, something strange in the way her eyes trail over his features, almost curious, something gently slipping into place. He continues on, unperturbed, "Weak, unable to take the necessary steps to protect the things you claim to care for."

He steps forward, nearer to her, invading that precious space. He isn't entirely certain what he expects but what he receives certainly isn't it. The woman does not shy back or away from him, does not avert her gaze. There is no anger, simple curiosity, judging him, weighing him (and finding him lacking).

For the first time, he feels something like hesitation.

"You hesitate, following his orders, his training," the woman's lips purse to little more than a thin line as he continues, so blithely unaware of the edge he's so precariously balanced on. "His hesitation, his high minded morality, cost my mother her life." There's that look again, so dark, the information he's fed her directly at odds with his father's own accounts. His voice drops, lowers to little more than a whisper, so soft, so endearing (he's a friend, yes? The man who'd saved her, breathed life back into her), "His hesitation, his inability to act, cost you your life."

Her head snaps up, something hardening behind her eyes. It is then, and only then, that he realizes the misstep. That his half truths have slipped into lies, that she is pointedly aware of them. And that he has, in one moment, lost whatever fragment of (imagined) control he'd held over her. Where before she had nothing more than feeling to back her devotion, she now has experience…

And he has contradicted things she knows as truth. He has lied to her. He has burned that last bridge.

"He could not act, Alicia, and it cost you your life." _He'd killed her._

The statement should send her reeling; it should tear that hard won control from her or shatter her world, send her at him in a fit of rage, decrying his words. It would have done so only months before, when she'd clung to his half truths in desperation, clawing for whatever pathetic strands of her past life she could catch hold of. It is odd, almost disquieting, to have so distanced herself from that woman, enough for it to almost seem an entirely different life. Those words would have shattered her…

…now there is only an overwhelming sense of calm, a realization sinking heavily into place, convictions crystallizing. The woman tilts her head to the side, smiling wryly as she takes in the child in front of her. A child…he's nothing more than that. Nothing more than a stunted excuse for the boy she remembers from so many years ago, clinging desperately to those youthful interpretations of the world, seeing only black and white in a world of gray. The Lieutenant holds her head high, proud, holsters her weapon, taking a step forward…

…Lucas takes a step back, staring at her in a mixture of confusion and horror. The Phoenix has stepped so boldly out of his shadow, reborn as she once was, all confidence and grace, her wings again cut free from the tendrils of doubt he has so skillfully bound her with. She smiles, a creature beautiful and somehow horrible, her strength returned to her, voice resolute and as final as any death knell, severing whatever tenuous hold he pretended to have on her sanity, "No, Lucas, you're wrong."

So very strange how four words, spoken so coolly, almost as if they disinterest her, spark such a change in him; the boy stares at her in anger, desperation, casting about himself as if to find the chains she's so simply shed. The amber eyed creature he'd hoped so desperately to control takes another step towards him, stares at him…

Not in contempt, not in anger, not in sadness, not in _anything_…

…he is _nothing _to her. He is not worthy of any reaction from her, is merely dismissed, cast aside, forgotten. The insecure child inside of him rails at this, green eyes widening as he shrinks back, "You always have been."

…Because she knows, because his lies no longer hold sway over her; because she's chosen and whatever he's painted her as, with, she has not chosen _him_. Lieutenant Alicia Washington of Terra Nova stares down at him, so sure of herself, a picture perfect recreation of the defiant woman who had stared down the barrel of his gun so long ago, "About your mother…"

Ayani, beautiful Ayani with her green eyes; Ayani who he had loved so desperately and who would be so disappointed with the man he's become…

The bitch has no place to speak of her. Snarling, he lunges at the soldier, the attack clumsy, unbalanced. Washington side steps easily, striking him in the shoulder. It's a grazing blow, intended to humiliate rather than harm. A reminder that she is far more capable in combat; it is ignored as he swings around, fist aimed at her jaw.

She catches it easily, twisting that arm painfully around his back, hissing against his ear, "About your father…"

Nathaniel, the man he has so painstakingly painted as a villain, the half truths he has fed her revealed as little more than shallow lies…

He snarls, jabbing back violently with his elbow. Washington releases him, giving the back of his knee a swift kick, bringing him to his knees. Boyish rage, impotent, in the face of the collected woman, proud and defiant and so very alive, as she stares down at him, dismisses him, "…And about me."

The Phoenix stands as she once had, once more the woman from his memories and the woman he'd admired as a boy. He feels something like shame meshing seamlessly with the uglier sentiments (anger, disappointment) in his gut as those amber eyes pin him unflinchingly beneath their gaze, "You are _wrong_, Lucas."

He is wrong about everything, as he has always been and as he always will be.

The lips curl back in a hateful snarl (because she can't be right; she just _can't _be), the unearthly light of the portal flanking him, causing the once elegant planes of his face to appear almost skeletal. The pistol remains in her holster, her hands resting idly at her side. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, gently warning him not to try such a thing. For all the evils he has committed, against this place, against the ones she loves and against her, she hesitates.

Much as his father is so willing to, she will offer him a second chance, give him the benefit of the doubt though she is aware he is beyond redemption. His hand moves subtly behind him, fingers tightening around the familiar metal of the knife. Her eyes narrow but she does not move for her weapon.

It is simultaneously a weakness and strength, a thing he will never understand. He cannot comprehend her faith or her loyalty to the older man. It is foreign to him but useful regardless. The older Taylor lets out a pained groan, wincing at the agony undoubtedly wracking his frame. And for all her training, the Lieutenant commits the most cardinal of sins. She acts as the lover rather than the soldier. Ever so slightly, she flicks her gaze to Nathaniel.

Such a small opening in her guard is all it takes. With strength born of desperation, he lunges forward, knife extended. He isn't faster than her; he isn't stronger. But there is no hesitation in his movements; there is a flicker of it in her eyes even now. A part of him doesn't think she'll do it. He's convinced she lacks the nerve, even now, to take that final step, even as her hand falls to the butt of her pistol. There's the familiar resistance as the blade bites into the skin of her shoulder, tearing through flesh. He imagines his father cries out; he imagines the woman lets out a small grunt of pain as crimson blossoms from the laceration (the color his mind so frequently paints her with).

It's impossible to validate any of these things. All he is aware of is the familiar sound of a sonic gun going off, the feeling of a bone shattering force colliding point blank with his ribs. The world rushes past him in a blur of colors, body bouncing like a rag doll off the cavern floor. Pure energy licks at his skin as he lies in front of the portal, staring up at the woman as she closes the distance between them. The boy laughs as she fists hands in his shirt, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet, simultaneously frightened of and confident in her devotion to his father. She won't take that step. She won't cross that line. She will hesitate as she always does, as they always do.

"You can't kill me, Alicia."

Something flashes in those amber eyes that momentarily takes him back, reminds him why he had respected her, feared her. She glances back towards his father once more (always the picture perfect soldier, so loyal, slavering at his heels), smiling grimly. A surge of satisfaction rushes through him when she speaks, her voice soft, "You're right, Lucas. I can't kill you; I won't kill you."

Her hands tighten in his shirt; despite her words he feels the furthest thing from safe as he eyes flick towards the portal behind him. In that one moment, he sees her come to a conclusion. The scenarios she's run through her head over and over, searching for the correct solution, have finally come to their decision. There is no doubt, no hesitation. She smiles, looking almost sad in the unnatural light of the portal, as she steps forward, "And I don't have to."

A part of him still believes she will hesitate.

She does not.

* * *

><p>Nathaniel feels an odd sort of numbness spread through him as the events unfold before him, leaves him as little more than a spectator in the face of his Lieutenant and son. He permits his eyes to slide shut, feels energy flood the room, a wave of hot energy licking over them as it reaches out to envelop the boy, draw him away to some distant corner of the universe. When he opens them, only Wash remains, grim faced as she casts about the room for something. For her supposed victory, she does not smile.<p>

She's stares at him for a long moment, those amber eyes glassy and faraway. The woman is a hell of a sight; with her hand clutched to her shoulder, the crimson liquid trickling over her fingers, down her arm, gore and dirt smeared across her features, she resembles something dark and terrible. She is an avenging angel from a fanciful story, a creature miserably beautiful and absolutely perfect. In that moment, she is the amalgamation of everything he will ever desire or need.

And she's staring at him unseeingly, a vacant smile on her face.

For reasons he cannot explain his heart screams in his chest, protests with all the meager strength it has left. Taylor struggles to his feet, limbs feeling leaden and impossible to manage (has to try, has to try for her). He lets out a hiss of pain as his maltreated ankle protests the sudden weight put on it, the speed at which he's urging it on (has to get to her, has to prove she's still with him). There's only one thought in his head and it is not the pain wracking his body, not the loss of his son, not the mercenaries still outside.

It's her; it's the notion that he might have lost her, that she might have forgotten him, again.

Those amber eyes focus on him as he nears, something familiar flickering within their depths. Things he's recognizes from years spent at her side, masks she has spent countless hours perfecting, shutting herself off from the world and him. A cold, dispassionate, being stands across from him; something sculpted more of ice than flesh.

He feels the dread pooling in his gut blossom into very real despair (can't do this again; he can't do this again). Hesitantly, he reaches a hand towards her…

...And those masks melt away. Her lips curve up in a delicate, hesitant smile. All blood and death and rebirth, she is something perfect and everything he needs (has to remember him, please, just remember him). Wash takes one step towards him, only one. It is somehow enough to cross the chasm between them; it is the one step they have refrained from taking over the years, twenty years in the making.

_Alicia _smiles at him, extends her hand (dripping with blood (hers and his sons)). The woman takes a breath he might describe as shaky if he didn't know her better, her gaze clear and confident for the first time since that day months prior. When she'd faced death, stared down the barrel of that gun; for the first time it's _her _standing in front of him, proud and confident and _alive_.

He takes the extended hand (he's absently aware of the warm liquid coating their hands, their blood mingling seamlessly), gives a squeeze as his fingers clasp about her wrist. There is nothing more radiant than her expression, knowing, years of shared experience behind it. For the first time, she sees him, really, truly, sees _him_.

The woman's shoulders square, holds her head high, stands as the picture perfect soldier, _his _soldier, her voice clear and stark in the quiet of the rcave (words he would have been able to pick out regardless of the setting).

"Lieutenant Alicia Washington, sir, reporting for duty."

Her title, her years, everything they've lost mingled into that one phrase. It has taken months but Wash has kept her word, defied all odds, returned to him.

He's moving before he can think better of it. Taylor crashes into her (hears her muffled groan as the force jostles her injured shoulder; in this moment, neither can bring themselves to care), one hand moving to clutch the nape of her neck and draw her to him. Breathing cannot possibly be as integral to his continued health as tasting her; she has conquered death once before; she can stave it off again if only for a few moments, if only for this. He swallows her moan, smiling as she surges up to meet him, one hand tangling in his hair as the other comes to rest on his jaw.

She's back with him; she's _here_with him.

He nips at her lower lip (took her damn long enough to find her way home); she bites back, follows it with a quick swipe of her tongue, chasing away any hurt (tried her best and he shouldn't have doubted her). The hand in her hair tightens its grip, draws her impossibly closer to him (he never had). Wash pulls away enough to smile, gently resting her forehead against his, her hands coming up to cup his cheek (she knows).

If they were anyone else, he'd tell her he loved her (words are redundant). If they were anyone else, she'd swear at him, demand he never leave her again (a promise he will never keep). If they were anyone else, this is where the story would conclude, happy ending and all. He'll tell her he loves her and the credits will roll, the book will close.

Perhaps they'll have that happy ending (though neither of them will be content until they have fought for it; they are neither of them suited for peace, structured too heavily in war). Perhaps they've earned a brief respite and a chance at this.

He doesn't pretend to know and, looking at her, he can't bring himself to care. There's recognition in her eyes, memory, and, for the time being, that is the most beautiful thing to him. _She _is the most beautiful thing to him.

He doesn't tell her he loves her. He doesn't promise happy endings or a sunset or whatever else.

Taylor leans in and kisses her, barely more than a brush over her lips, a hint of sensation, as he tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear (wet with blood and dirt and all the more beautiful for it). Their breath mingling as he holds her painfully tight to his chest, speaking against her cheek, he speaks the words he's longed to for months:

"Welcome home, Alicia."


End file.
